NOTES 


OF 


HOSPITAL  LIFE 


FROM  NOVEMBER,  1861,  TO  AUGUST,  1863. 


"Je  viens  de  faire  un  ouvrage." 

"Comment!  un  livre?" 

"Non;  pas  un  livre;  je  ne  suis  pas  si  betel" 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT    &   CO. 
1864. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1864,  by 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO., 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

DEDICATION, v 

INTRODUCTION  BY  BISHOP  POTTER,        .        .        .  vii 

PREFACE, xi 

INTRODUCTION, 17 

OUR  DAILY  WORK,        . 23 

A  MORNING  AT  THE  HOSPITAL, 38 

THE  Two  ARMIES,         .        .        .        .        .        .        .43 

THE  CONTRAST, 47 

BROWNING, 63 

BROWN, 69 

DARLINGTON,  .........  75 

"LITTLE  CORNING/' 93 

GAVIN, 105 

CHRISTMAS  AT  THE  U.  S.  A.  HOSPITAL,  ,  ,      .  114 

POOR  JOSE, 128 

ROBINSON, 139 

THE  RETURN  TO  THE  REGIMENT, 157 

A  VISIT  TO  THE  WARDS,       ......  168 

OUR  GETTYSBURG  MEN, 193 

(iii) 


TO 

THE    PRIVATES 


el 


WHOSE 

DARING  IN  DANGER; 

PATIENCE   IN   PRIVATION; 

SELP-S  ACRIFICE  IN  SUFFERING; 

AND  LOYALTY  IN  LOVE  FOR  THEIR  COUNTRY, 

HAVE  GIVEN  TO  THE  WORLD  A  NOBLE  EXAMPLE, 
WORTHY  OF  ALL  IMITATION, 

These  Notes  are  affectionately  Dedicated, 

BY    ONE    WHOSE    PRIVILEGE    IT   IS    TO 

HAVE    BEEN   PERMITTED 

TO    MINISTER   TO    THE    SICK    AND    WOUNDED    AMONG    THEM, 
IN   ONE   OF    OUR 

CITY  HOSPITALS. 


INTRODUCTION. 


THESE  "  Notes  "  need  no  introduction.  They  were 
jotted  down,  from  day  to  day,  as  a  private  journal, 
and  are  printed  only  at  the  instance  of  friends. 
The  undersigned  greatly  mistakes  if  they  are  not 
welcomed  as  an  accession  to  our  literature.  On 
every  page  they  betray  a  large  and  elegant  culture, 
and  what  is  better,  they  manifest  a  profound  sym 
pathy  in  all  that  is  human,  and  a  keen  insight  into 
nature  and  into  man's  heart.  Felicities  of  thought 
and  expression  abound,  vivid  pictures  of  incidents 
and  life-like  sketches  of  character.  They  are  full 
of  spirit,  of  wisdom,  and  of  right  feeling. 

They  rise,  too,  to  the  level  of  a  great  subject. 
In  the  conflict  which  convulses  our  land,  how 
many  souls  are  stirred  —  how  many  hearts  made 
to  burn !  We  cannot  envy  him  or  her  who  can 
look  on  such  a  scene — on  the  principles  involved, 

(vii) 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION. 

and  the  interests  at  stake,  and  yet  not  feel  kindled 
to  a  higher  life.  We  can  regard  but  with  compas 
sion  those  who  see  in  this  war  only  blunders  to  be 
criticised,  absurdities  to  be  ridiculed,  crimes  to  be 
gloated  over,  or  life  and  property  to  be  deplored. 

If,  in  the  liberty  and  peace  of  those  who  live  in 
this  land,  and  of  the  millions  who  are  to  come 
after,  there  be  anything  precious;  if  there  is  any 
thing  sacred  and  venerable  in  the  unity  of  a  great 
people  and  in  the  sovereignty  with  which  they 
have  been  charged  by  solemn  compact;  if  there 
is  any  claim  upon  us  as  men  and  as  Christians, 
in  behalf  of  a  race  that  has  suffered  long  and 
sorely  at  our  hands,  and  that  now,  for  the  first 
time,  seems  to  behold  the  light  of  hope,  then  is 
there  that  at  stake  which  should  move  every  one 
to  sympathy  and  to  help. 

Our  hearts  must  bleed  as  we  gaze  on  the  vast 
suffering;  but  "we  buy  our  blessings  at  a  price/' 
Hitherto  it  has  been  our  great  danger  that  we 
have  had  little  save  sunshine.  Prosperity,  great 
and  uninterrupted,  is  perilous  for  nations  as 
well  as  individuals.  It  is  amidst  thunder-clouds, 
and  storms,  that  the  oak  gets  strength  and  deep 
root ;  it  is  while  battling  in  tempestuous  seas  that 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 

the  vessel  proves  and  at  the  same  time  confirms 
her  capacity.  So  in  this  gigantic  strife,  powers 
will  be  elicited,  and  a  trust  in  God  and  in  grand 
principles  developed,  which  will  be,  we  trust,  our 
fortress  and  our  high  tower  hereafter. 

It  is  one  of  the  merits  of  this  writer  that,  with 
a  heart  alive  to  the  wants  and  wretchedness  of 
the  sick  and  wounded,  she  joins  discernment  of 
the  mighty  questions  involved.  She  sees,  with 
exquisite  relish,  the  picturesque  in  character  and 
incident;  she  has  an  eye,  too,  for  the  deep  wealth 
of  affection  and  generous  sympathy  that  lie  em 
bedded  in  the  roughest  natures  —  for  the  flashes 
of  merriment  and  drollery  which  lighten  up  the 
darkest  scenes — for  the  delicate  tastes  and  noble 
sentiments  that  often  possess  those  whose  hands 
have  been  hardened  by  toil,  and  whose  minds  (in 
the  judgment  of  too  many)  must  needs  have  been 
debased  by  habitual  contact  with  vulgar  pursuits. 
Hers  is  a  heart  which  can  feel  that  which  makes 
all  the  world  akin — which  can  see  that  labor  does 
not  degrade,  but  rather  elevates  those  who  pursue 
it  in  the  true  spirit;  and  that  nothing  can  be  more 
preposterous  in  a  land  like  ours,  which  is  made 
and  glorified  by  the  joint  handiwork  of  God  and 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

man,  than  to  decry  or  despise  it.  These  pages 
are  instinct  with  faith  in  God  and  in  our  people ; 
with  hope  for  the  future;  with  a  charity  that 

never  faileth. 

A.  POTTER. 

PHILADELPHIA,  February,  1864. 


PKEFACE. 


A  LITERARY  friend  said  to  me  some  time  since, 
"  One  of  the  greatest  evils  of  this  rebellion,  is  the 
manner  in  which  it  is  tainting  our  literature, 
science,  and  arts.  If  they  would  only  fight  it 
out  and  confine  it  to  fighting,  bad  as  it  is,  we 
might  rise  from  its  effects ;  but  this  flood  of  war- 
literature  will  so  set  the  mind  of  the  next  genera 
tion  into  a  military  groove,  that  poetry,  refined 
taste,  and  love  for  the  beautiful,  will  be  lost  in 
the  roar  of  literary  drums  and  mental  musketry." 

"And  did  you  imagine,"  said  I,  "  that  such  a 
rebellion  could  be  carried  on  without  affecting 
and  injuring  every  nerve  and  fibre  of  the  whole 
country  ?  Do  you  not  see  that  it  is  a  moral 
Pyaemia  —  a  poisoning  of  the  veins  of  the  entire 
nation  ?  And  although  we  trust  the  disease  may 
be  arrested  ere  it  destroy  national  existence,  still 
the  system  suffers  throughout ;  and  the  result  must 
(xi) 


Xll  PREFACE. 

be  vapid  volumes,  paltry  pictures,  and  silly  state 
ments  of  so-called  science.  But  granting  that  it 
is  to  be  deplored — that  the  military  mind  should 
take  the  place  of  the  literary  one,  I  must  break 
a  lance  with  you  on  the  question  whether,  in  so 
doing,  '  poetry,  refined  taste,  and  love  for  the 
beautiful'  must  of  necessity  be  lost.  I  will  not 
grant  it.  At  the  opening  of  the  war  I  thought, 
with  you,  that  the  finer  feelings  of  our  nature  were 
exclusively  the  property  of  the  higher  classes ;  but 
two  years'  experience  in  a  military  hospital,  where 
men  appear  mentally  as  well  as  physically  in  "  un 
dress  uniform,"  has  shown  me  the  utter  fallacy  of 
such  a  theory;  and  now  I  do  not  hesitate  to  affirm 
that  I  have  seen  there  as  much  unwritten  poetry, 
tender  feeling,  aye,  and  love  for  the  beautiful,  as  I 
have  ever  witnessed  among  the  same  number  of 
people  gathered  together  at  any  time,  or  in  any 
place." 

Sickly  sentimentality,  whether  shown  in  words 
or  actions,  for  "  our  poor,  suffering  soldiers,"  is  cer 
tainly  a  thing  to  be  much  deprecated ;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  not  a  hard,  gregarious  view  of  them 
to  be  equally  avoided  ? 

I  do  not  ask  to  raise  them  to  more,  but  not  to 


PREFACE.  Xlll 

sink  them  to  less  than  men.  Our  army  is  no  "  Cor 
poration  without  a  soul;"  it  is  a  mass  of  units — a 
collection  of  beating  hearts,  throbbing  pulses,  and 
straining  nerves,  which  ask  and  need  our  love  and 
sympathy,  and  surely  they  should  not  ask  in  vain. 

I  have  anticipated  your  question,  dear  reader, 
Ci  Why  bore  us  with  your  conversation  with  your 
friend?"  Simply  because  that  conversation  has 
led  to  the  further  bore  of  this  volume.  These 
notes  were  jotted  down  as  the  incidents  occurred; 
they  are  a  simple  statement  of  facts  simply  stated. 
The  only  object  of  collecting  them  at  present  is 
that,  as  my  friend's  feeling  appears  to  be  a  general 
one,  it  seemed  possible  that  these  instances  might 
prove,  in  some  small  degree,  the  converse  of  the 
proposition  ;  and,  although  at  any  other  time  quite 
unworthy  of  publication,  the  intense  and  absorbing 
desire,  at  present,  to  obtain  particulars  of  even  the 
most  trifling  circumstances  connected  with  the  war, 
has  led  me  to  hope  that  they  may  not  be  wholly 
without  interest. 

In  conclusion,  I  must  regret  the  necessity  of  any 

mention   of   self;    but  the  nature    of   the    subject 

requires  this,  and  without  it,  very  frequently  the 

point   to   be   established    would   be   lost.     I    have 

2 


XIV  PREFACE. 

omitted  many  incidents  from  this  very  objection, 
but  it  would  be  unjust  to  the  cause  which  I  have 
at  heart  to  do  more,  and  I  must  therefore  trust 
that  the  reader  will  believe  me,  when  I  say  that 
any  such  allusion  arises  from  necessity,  not  taste. 
AUGUST,  1863. 


FLORIAN.— A  soldier,  didst  thou  say,  Horatio  ?    What !     Is't  from 
the  ranks  you  mean?     Faugh! 

HORATIO. — Marry,  I  did!     A  soldier   and   a  man;    and,  being  a 

soldier,  all  the  manlier,  maybe. 

We  "  Faugh  ! "  and  turn  our  precious  noses  to  the  wind, 
As  breath  from  ranks,  perforce  must  be  rank  breath ; 
But,  mark,  my  lord,  God  made  the  ranks,  and  more, 
God  died  for  those  same  ranks,  as  well  as  men  of  rank. 

OLD  PLAY. 


(16) 


NOTES  OF  HOSPITAL  LIFE. 


IJSTTKODUCTION. 

LIFE  in  a  hospital !  When  and  where  ?  Now  and 
here.  Now,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  sixty-three ;  here,  in  this  good 
city  of  Philadelphia,  whose  generous  outpouring  of 
her  sons,  for  the  cause,  nearest  all  our  hearts,  can 
only  be  matched  by  the  loving  tenderness  with 
which  she  receives  and  cherishes  them,  on  their 
return,  maimed  and  mutilated,  to  their  homes 
amongst  us.  Every  one,  who  knows  anything  of 
the  subject  at  the  present  moment,  is  well  aware, 
that  no  matter  where  it  may  be  situated,  whether 
opened  at  the  first  need,  or  the  creation  of  yester 
day,  still  "  our  Hospital"  will  be,  to  the  speaker,  the 
most  perfect  in  arrangement,  discipline,  and  ven 
tilation;  the  medical  staff  connected  with  it  the 
most  efficient,  skilful  and  faithful ;  the  corps  of  sub 
ordinates  the  most  competent,  systematic  and  tho 
rough.  Such  is  human  nature,  and  we  all  find  the 

weakness  a  pardonable  one. 

2*  (17) 


18  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

How  natural  it  seems  to  be  here  !  How  naturally 
we  accept  this  strange  daily  life !  And  yet,  how 
unnatural  it  would  have  seemed  two  years  ago, 
could  we  have  lifted  but  one  little  corner  of  that 
mystic  veil,  which  so  blessedly  prevents  even  a 
glimpse  of  the  coming  hour;  how  unnatural,  I  say, 
would  it  have  seemed  to  us,  to  be.  standing,  as  we 
are  at  the  present  moment,  in  a  little  domain  of 
our  own,  consecrated  exclusively  to  us;  turning  to 
all  sorts  of  utterly  unwonted  avocations ;  any  and 
every  sort  of  service  which  may  bring  comfort  or 
aid  to  those  who  were  strangers  to  us,  till  this  very 
day,  and  after  a  few  to-morrows,  will,  in  all  proba 
bility,  be  strangers  to  us  forevermore. 

And  yet,  how  glad  we  are  to  do  it,  and  they  to 
have  it  done.  "  Stop  there,  my  friend/'  you  say. 
"  'And  they  to  have  it  done.'  Is  that  so  ?  Are 
the  men  quite  as  glad  to  have  it  done,  as  you  to 
do  it?"  Ah,  you  have  heard  that  cry.  I  too  have 
heard  it,  and  will  tell  you  frankly,  and  as  far  as 
possible,  impartially,  my  own  conclusion,  after 
careful  examination  of  that  point : 

"  Women  are  not  needed  in  these  hospitals." 

"  Depend  upon  it,  ladies  are  a  bore  here." 

"  The  men  are  victimized." 

All  these  and  many  similar  remarks  have  I  heard, 
and  they  have  led  me  earnestly  to  look  at  the  ques 
tion  in  all  its  bearings.  The  petty  jealousy  of  man 
and  his  work;  the  narrowness  and  littleness  of  mind 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  19 

which  bristles  with  indignant  anger  at  the  sugges 
tion  of  man's  superiority,  are  all  unworthy  of  the 
great  cause  we  have  at  heart.  But  one  question  is 
before  us.  Are  the  facts  so,  or  are  they  not?  If. 
after  every  effort  honestly  to  get  at  the  truth,  it 
shall  appear  that  there  really  is  no  need  of  woman 
and  her  work;  that  these  enormous  collections  of 
suffering  and  dying  human  beings,  massed  together 
by  this  ruthless  rebellion,  with  its  wretched  results, 
actually  and  positively,  may  be  carried  on  better, 
more  practically,  more  systematically,  without  her 
aid  and  co-operation,  then  let  her  promptly  and 
decidedly  retire ;  let  her  do  it  without  anger,  with 
out  clamor,  without  bitterness;  she  is  not  needed. 
If  this  be  so,  let  her  turn  into  some  other  channel 
the  love  and  tenderness  which  she  longs  to  lavish 
on  those  who  are  giving  their  heart's  blood  to 
defend  and  protect  her. 

If  this  be  so,  I  say;  but  if  on  the  other  hand  it 
shall  appear  that  her  presqnce  is  not  productive  of 
disorder;  not  distasteful  to  the  men;  that  she  is 
not  only  sanctioned,  but  welcomed  by  the  authori 
ties  in  charge,  then  let  her  go  "right  onward," 
unmindful  of  coldness,  calumny,  or  comment  from 
the  world  outside,  strong  in  the  consciousness  of 
singleness  of  aim  and  purity  of  purpose.  And, 
more  than  this,  if  the  Dread  Day  may  show,  that 
through  her  kneeling  at  the  bedside  of  one  sinning 
soul,  through  her  teaching  of 


20  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

"  truths,  not  l  her's,'  indeed, 
But  set  within  '  his '  reach  by  means  of  '  her,'  " 

the  dark  Door  of  Death  has  been  changed  into  the 
White  Gate  of  Life  Everlasting,  shall  it  not  then 
be  granted  that  women  were  needed  ? 

This  is  not  the  time  or  place  to  enter  upon  the 
great  question  of  woman's  mission.  She  has  her 
work,  and  the  time  is  coming  when  she  shall  be 
permitted  to  do  it.  God.  in  His  own  marvellous 
way,  is,  even  now,  causing  the  dawn  of  that  blessed 
day  to  break,  when,  rising  above  prejudice  and 
party  spirit,  she  shall  be  allowed  to  take  her  true 
place,  and  be,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word,  a 
"Sister"  to  the  suffering  and  the  sorrowful;  to 
assert  and  claim  her  "rights,"  the  only  rights  of 
which  a  woman  may  justly  be  proud. 

"  What  are  Woman's  Rights  ? " 
"  The  right  to  wake  when  others  sleep ; 
The  right  to  watch,  the  right  to  weep; 
The  right  to  comfort  in  distress, 
The  right  to  soothe,  the  right  to  bless ; 
The  right  the  widow's  heart  to  cheer, 
The  right  to  dry  the  orphan's  tear ; 
The  right  to  feed  and  clothe  the  poor, 
The  right  to  teach  them  to  endure. 

"  The  right  when  other  friends  have  flown, 
And  left  the  sufferer  all  alone, 
To  kneel  that  dying  couch  beside, 
And  meekly  point  to  Him  who  died  •, 
The  right  a  happy  home  to  make 
In  any  clime,  for  Jesu's  sake ; 
Rights  such  as  these,  are  all  we  crave, 
Until  our  last — a  quiet  grave." 


NOTES     OP     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  21 

Anxious,  as  I  have  said,  to  discover  whether  our 
presence  in  the  hospital  was  really  acceptable  or 
not,  I  have  closely  watched  the  countenances  of 
the  men  on  the  entrance  of  the  lady  visitors.  I 
speak  not  now  of  myself,  for  I  am  merely  one,  and 
a  most  insignificant  one,  among  many ;  but  I  can 
truly  say,  that  at  all  such  times  I  have  never,  but 
once,  seen  other  than  an  expression  of  pleasure, 
and  the  warm  greeting  is  apparently  most  sincere. 
The  one  instance  to  which  I  allude,  is  certainly  no 
argument  against  the  presence  of  ladies;  it  extended 
to  every  one  who  approached  his  bedside,  and  was 
produced  by  intense  physical  anguish,  acting  on  a 
highly  nervous  organization.  I  merely  name  it 
now,  because  it  is,  as  I  have  said,  the  sole  instance 
in  which  we  were  not  welcomed  and  urged  to  stay. 
And  yet,  the  very  words,  in  that  suffering,  pleading 
tone,  "  Dear  lady,  please  to  go  away,  I  am  so  very 
wretched,"  proved  that  it  was  no  dislike  to  us 
personally,  but  merely  that  terrible  state,  too  well 
known  to  any  one  of  a  very  nervous  temperament, 
when  even  the  stirring  of  the  air  by  the  bedside 
seems  a  pain.  Subsequent  events,  which  I  have 
noted  elsewhere,  show  this  to  have  been  the  case. 

At  the  time  of  the  visit  of  the  Surgeon-General 
of  the  United  States  to  inspect  the  hospitals,  it 
was  rumored,  though  wholly  without  foundation, 
that  his  object  was  to  change  the  organization  and 
remove  the  ladies.  The  burst  of  feeling  with  which 


22  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

this  rumor  was  received  was  more  than  gratifying, 
it  was  convincing,  and  proved  that  if  the  men  were 
"victimized"  they  were  quite  unconscious  of  it. 
Only  a  day  or  two  since,  as  I  was  sitting  by  one 
of  our  sick  men,  M.  passed  with  some  preparation 
in  her  hand,  which  she  had  just  made.  He  turned 
to  me,  and  pointing  to  her,  said,  "  I  don't  think  all 
our  angels  are  in  heaven,  do  you?" 

The  same  feeling,  though  not  always  expressed 
in  the  same  words,  seems  to  be  entertained  by  one 
and  all.  "  Tell  me,"  said  I  to  one  the  other  day, 
"  if  I  am  in  your  way  ?" 

"In  our  way!"  said  he,  "is  the  green  grass  in 
our  way?" 

"  No,  for  you  walk  c-ver  it,  and  I  have  no  wish 
to  be  trampled  on." 

He  looked  disappointed.  "  I  didn't  mean  that, 
Miss,  I  meant  its  presence  always  cools  and  refreshes 
us,  and  I  thought  you'd  understand." 

"  I  did  quite  understand,  and  thank  you,"  I  said, 
sorry  that  I  had  pained  him  by  rejecting  the  well- 
meant  expression  of  feeling. 

Any  one  who  seriously  desires  to  ascertain  the 
truth,  (and  to  such  only  do  I  address  myself)  will 
believe  that  these  instances  are  not  recorded  for 
the  sake  of  retailing  compliments,  but  as  proofs  of 
a  far  deeper  feeling,  which,  there  can  be  little  doubt, 
does  exist  in  the  hearts  of  the  men  amongst  whom 
we  are  appointed  to  minister. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  23 


OUE  DAILY  WORK. 

AUGUST,  1862. 

You  ask  me,  dear  C.,  the  usual  question,  when  our 
work  at  the  hospital  is  mentioned,  "  What  can  the 
ladies  find  to  do  all  day?"  I  might  give  you  the 
stereotyped  answer,  "  We  receive  and  register  the 
donations,  give  out  and  oversee  the  clothing,  make 
either  delicacies  or  drinks  for  the  men  who  are  ill, 
read  to  them,  write  for  them,  and  try  to  make 
ourselves  generally  useful."  This  is  the  ordinary 
answer,  but  I  think  it  would  be  more  agreeable  to 
you  to  come  and  see  for  yourself;  one  day  is  a 
pretty  good  specimen  of  every  day,  at  least  at 
present,  so  don  your  bonnet  and  jump  into  the 
cars  with  me.  What  do  you  say  ?  That  the  sun 
is  too  scorching  and  the  air  too  heavy  for  exertion  ? 
You  think  so  here,  but  come  with  me,  and  you  will 
soon  forget  weather  and  self  in  more  important 
affairs;  at  least,  so  I  find  it.  You  agree?  Well, 
then,  here  we  are;  why  don't  you  acknowledge  the 
guard's  salute  as  we  enter  ?  Shall  we  pause  for  a, 
moment  in  the  wards,  before  we  begin  our  work  ? 
I  think  we  had  better  do  so,  for  in  these  days,  when 
we  once  enter  our  room,  there  is  no  escape,  while 


24  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

the  light  lasts.  There  are  several  cases  here  which 
I  should  like  to  point  out  to  you  as  we  pass  along, 
though  we  cannot  give  much  time  to  them  to-day. 
Do  you  see  the  man  bending  over  that  geranium 
plant  in  the  window  ?  I  think  I  have  never  seen  a 
more  real,  true,  deep  love  of  flowers  in  any  one  than 
in  him.  You  see  how  lovingly  he  leans  over  that 
bush,  as  though  each  leaf  were  a  special  pet  and 
darling.  I  have  often,  this  summer,  brought  him 
a  few  roses  —  as  much,  I  believe,  for  my  own  plea 
sure  as  his  —  that  I  might  watch  his  delight.  He 
would  sit  often  for  nearly  an  hour  looking  at  them, 
holding  them  in  his  hands  and  lingering  over  them, 
it  seemed,  with  a  feeling  too  deep  for  Avords. 

I  never  could  tell  whether  it  was  pure  love  of  the 
flowers  themselves,  or  whether  they  brought  home, 
with  all  its  memories,  before  him;  and  as  he  is 
very  reserved,  I  content  myself  with  giving  the 
enjoyment  without  being  too  critical  as  to  its  cause. 

But  while  I  am  talking,  I  see  that  your  eyes  are 
wandering  to  that  bed,  where  one  of  our  sickest 
men  is  lying.  He  is  an  Irishman,  and  far  gone  in 
consumption,  poor  fellow  !  He  has  interested  me 
much  by  his  air  of  silent,  weary  suffering,  and 
from  his  loneliness;  he  seems  to  have  no  friends 
anywhere,  and  is  very  grateful  for  the  least  service 
rendered  him.  And  yet  he  has  a  good  deal  of 
drollery  about  him,  and  when  his  pain  will  let 
him,  often  amuses  the  men  with  his  dry  remarks. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  25 

The  other  day,  as  I  passed  him,  his  hard,  hollow 
cough  was  followed  by  such  a  deep,  heavy  sigh, 
that  I  stopped  at  once,  saying,  "  What  can  I  do  for 
you,  Jones  ?  Is  there  nothing  that  you  want  ?" 

"Nothing,  ma'am,  nothing;  sure,  and  what  I 
want,  is  what  you  can't  give." 

"Tell  me  what  it  is;  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to 
help  you." 

"  Sure,  and  it's  lonely  I  am,  so  very  lonely ;  and 
it's  some  one  to  love  that  I'm  wanting." 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "you  were  right  to  say  I  couldn't 
help  you,  for  unfortunately  wives  are  not  provided 
by  Government." 

Here  his  Irish  humor  gained  the  ascendant,  and 
with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye,  so  mournful  but 
a  moment  before,  he  said,  "  But  I'm  thinking  that's 
jist  what  you  ladies  is  here  for,  to  supply  what 
isn't  provided  by  Government." 

"Exactly,"  said  I,  much  amused;  "but  I  do  not 
find  wives  among  the  list  of  luxuries  on  our  diet- 
table.  Jones,  look  at  the  man  at  your  side,  the 
man  opposite  to  you,  and  the  man  directly  in  front 
of  you;  ask  each  one  of  those  three  what  is  their 
greatest  trouble  at  this  moment,  and  I  happen  to 
know  exactly  what  they  will  tell  you. 

"  The  one  at  your  side  is  wearying  for  a  letter 

from  his  far   distant  home,  which   will  not  come, 

and  dreading  that  even  on  its  arrival,  it  will  only 

tell   him    of  sickness    and    suffering  among  those 

3 


26  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

dearest  to  him,  and  which,  lying  here,  he  has  no 
power  to  relieve;  the  man  opposite  to  you  has  just 
read  me  a  letter  from  his  wife,  telling  him  that  she 
and  the  children  were  almost  starving;  she  has 
hurt  her  right  arm,  and  can  no  longer  work,  scarcely 
hold  the  pen  to  write  that  letter,  and  he  will  send 
no  pay, — charging  him  with  it,  as  though  the  poor 
fellow  could  help  it." 

" '  God  knows/  he  says,  '  every  cent  I  ever  earned 
was  at  her  service  and  the  weans;'  (he  is  a  Scotch 
man,  as  I  knew,  when  I  heard  him  say  that)  'but 
the  pay  don't  come,  and  I  lie  here  thinking  all 
night,  till  I  sometimes  feel  I  must  pray  very  hard 
or  I  shall  cut  my  throat/ 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  comfort  him  with  the 
assurance  that  he  will  be  paid  before  long,  and 
have  been  telling  him  how  many  difficulties  there 
are  in  the  way  of  prompt  payment  in  the  army, 
and  that  the  men  must  try  to  be  patient,  and 
believe  that  the  Government  has  a  hard  task,  far 
harder  than  they  know,  to  meet  all  the  require 
ments  which  this  sad  state  of  things  necessarily 
causes. 

"  The  man  directly  in  front  of  you,  unable  as  you 
know  to  rise  from  his  bed,  has  just  heard  of  his 
wife's  death,  here  in  the  city,  and  does  not  know 
who  will  see  to  her  funeral,  nor  who  will  take  care 
of  his  little  ones ;  now,  may  not  some  things  be 
worse  than  loneliness?" 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  27 

"Faith,  an'  its  truth  you're  spakin' ;  a  sight 
worse  are  such  things  than  all  this  pain  and  cough; 
and  I'll  think  of  that  same,  when  the  other  thought 
comes,  when  my  breath's  so  short,  and  the  pain's 
so  bad,  that  longing  to  have  an  old  woman  to  say, 
'Is  it  sufferin'  ye  are,  Jones,  dear?'  and  I'm  just 
the  sort  to  fret,  if  she  was  wantin',  and  I  lyin' 
here,  not  able  to  help  her.  Thank  you,  ma'am,  I 
see  it's  far  best  as  it  is."  And  I  left  poor  Jones, 
convinced  that  there  were  circumstances  in  which 
an  "old  woman"  was  better  "in  posse,"  than  "in 
esse." 

But  what  wTill  become  of  our  duties  if  we  linger 
here  so  long ;  let  us  go  now  to  our  room  and  com 
mence  operations.  Look  before  you.  Do  you  know 
what  that  barricade  at  the  door  means?  Three 
barrels  and  two  large  boxes,  and  they  are  saying, 
"  Unpack  me,  unpack  me,  or  there  will  be  nothing 
left."  Do  you  wonder  how  I  have  found  out  that 
such  are  their  views  ?  Everything  on  earth  has  a 
mode  of  its  own  of  conveying  ideas ;  look  at  the 
bottom  of  those  barrels,  and  the  floor  near  those 
boxes,  and  you  will  find  that  red  stream  gently 
flowing  there,  quite  as  eloquent  and  quite  as  easily 
understood  as  any  words.  That  is  liquid  currant 
jelly,  which,  probably,  as  in  a  box  we  opened 
yesterday,  has  been  of  an  adventurous  turn  of 
mind,  one  of  the  Peripatetic  school,  and  not  con 
tent  with  the  narrow  limits  to  which  its  friends 


28  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

have  confined  it,  has  burst  its  bounds,  and  made 
acquaintance    with    sheets,   shirts,   and    stockings; 
and  you  will  soon  see  a  mournful  melange  of  jelly, 
broken  glass,  and  clothing;  and  fortunate  for  you 
if  you  do  not  mingle  your  own  blood  with  it  before 
you  are  done.     Do  not  imagine  that  all  our  boxes 
have  such  a  sad  fate;  many  arrive  in  prime  order, 
but  whenever  we  see  that  suspicious  color  at  the 
bottom   of  barrels  and  boxes,  we  know  what  to 
fear.     Only  a  day  or  two  ago,  a  large  box,  contain 
ing  a  dozen  and  a  half  large  earthenware  crocks 
of  apple-butter,  arrived,  from  which  we  could  only 
rescue  two,  the  others  being  a  motley  mass  of  but 
tered  earthenware  and  straw,  scarcely  a  desirable 
article  for  hospital  diet.     Dear  friends  in  the  coun 
try  !  whose   generous  hearts  prompt  you  to  send 
delicacies  to  the  sick  and  suffering  soldiers,  let  me 
beg  for  more  careful  packing;  slats  of  wood  between 
the  jars  would  prevent  them  from  falling  together, 
as  they  usually  do  when  hurriedly  lifted  up  and 
placed  on  end;  we  regret  the  loss  as  much,  or  more 
than  you  can  do,  for  we  see  the  disappointment  of 
the  men  as  they  take  out  one  broken  piece  after 
another,  and  vainly  try  to   separate   crockery  or 
glass  from  preserves. 

Here  comes  a  ready  helper.  Yes,  John,  roll  them 
right  into  our  room,  and  please  bring  a  hatchet  and 
open  that  box  for  us ;  I  know  it's  all  sticky,  but 


NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  29 

that  can't  be  helped,  we  must  do  the  best  with  it 
that  we  can. 

And  now,  while  he  is  taking  the  lid  of  the  box 
off  for  us,  and  opening  the  barrels,  take  a  seat  and 
look  round  you.  This  is  the  ladies'  room,  where  we 
spend  so  much  of  our  time,  and  where  all  our  work 
is  done.  But  first,  let  me  put  our  kettle  on  the 
stove,  we  must  soon  begin  our  cooking;  for  as  I 
have  told  you,  we  prepare  the  delicacies  for  the 
men  who  are  ill ;  cook  eggs  for  them,  stew  oysters, 
make  corn-starch,  farina,  arrow  root,  or  chocolate; 
don't  laugh  !  yes,  even  I  have  found  "ignorance" 
so  far  from  "  bliss,"  that  with  M/s  valuable  instruc 
tions,  I  am  really  learning  to  do  something  useful, 
incredible  as  it  appears  to  you.  What  do  you  say  ? 
That  you  would  not  care  to  test  the  truth  of  my 
statements  by  taste  ?  Ah  well !  you  shall  not  be 
tried,  and  in  the  meantime  the  men  a,re  satisfied, 
wrhich  is  my  only  aim.  The  clothing  you  see  here 
on  the  shelves,  consists  almost  entirely  of  donations. 
We  do  not  keep  the  Government  clothing  here — at 
least  only  certain  articles  —  as  all  the  flannel  is 
drawn  by  the  men  and  taken  from  their  pay ;  but 
we  have  been  so  liberally  supplied  from  the  different 
Churches,  and  from  various  societies,  that  it  has 
generally  been  in  our  power  to  give  them  what 
they  need,  and  allow  them  to  retain  the  articles. 

"  Well,  little  one,  come  here,  bring  me  your  box, 
and  I  will  empty  it  for  you.  ISTice  fresh  lint,  all 
3* 


30  NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

linen,  and  clean,  too;  that  will  be  much  better 
than  what  you  brought  before;  and  now  here  is 
your  box;  I  will  tell  the  poor  wounded  soldiers 
that  a  kind  little  girl  made  it  for  them;  and,  good 
bye  now,  run  home,  for  we  have  so  little  room  here, 
and  so  many  things  to  do,  that  little  girls  are  only 
in  the  way." 

This  is  only  the  advance  guard  of  the  little  army, 
which  daily,  from  "  morn  till  dewy  eve,"  keeps 
pouring  in,  company  after  company, —  I  might 
almost  say  regiment  after  regiment, —  with  their 
little  boxes  or  papers  of  lint,  often  made  of  muslin, 
and  bearing  the  impress  of  the  little  soiled  fingers 
that  picked  it.  But  we  always  receive  it  and 
thank  them.  Whether  it  can  be  used  or  not,  the 
kind  intention  is  the  same,  and  who  could  have  the 
heart  to  refuse  the  offering  of  a  child  ?  More  than 
this,  the  beaming  faces  and  sunny  smiles  with 
which  they  present  it,  as  though  it  were  some 
precious  gift,  more  than  atone  for  the  time  they 
occupy  in  attending  to  them. 

Turn  the  key  in  that  closet  door,  and  you  will 
see  all  our  jellies,  preserves,  wines,  syrups,  etc.  It 
is  so  full  just  now,  that  it  was  proposed  to  run  up 
another  room  for  a  donation  room,  as  we  really  do 
not  know  where  to  pack  away  all  our  things ;  but 
the  surgeon  tells  us,  what  is  very  true,  that  this 
cannot  last ;  at  the  present  time  there  is  an  unusual 
interest  and  excitement,  which  can  scarcely  con- 


NOTES     OP    HOSPITAL     LIFE.  31 

tinue,  and  we  must  take  care  of  these  things  till 
the  time  of  need.  Ah !  take  care,  John !  there 
goes  the  top ;  look  into  the  box ;  just  as  I  thought; 
see,  what  masses  of  jelly  and  broken  glass ;  what 
nice  fine  handkerchiefs,  too  good  for  the  purpose 
by  far;  carry  them  straight  to  the  laundry;  but 
no  !  that  was  the  way  Susan  got  that  bad  cut  the 
other  day ;  bring  a  pan,  and  we  will  let  them  soak 
here  first.  Just  look  at  these  poor  books;  with 
red  edges,  indeed,  and  rubricated  throughout;  and 
writing-paper,  too,  all  soaked  with  this  erratic 
currant  jelly;  and  what  is  this?  A  pen;  "cur- 
rente  calamo,"  indeed,  in  a  new  sense.  And  these 
nice  pillow-cases,  and  towels,  and  sheets, — but  they 
can  be  washed ;  what  is  next  ?  A  bundle  of 

"My  punches  ready,  miss?  for  the  fourth  ward, 
ten  to-day;  here's  the  Doctor's  list." 

"  Not  just  yet,  Price ;  you're  always  in  such  a 
hurry  for  your  men." 

"  You  see,  miss,  they  wouldn't  take  any  breakfast, 
and  I  want  something  for  them." 

This  from  the  most  faithful  and  attentive  of 
wardmasters.  At  the  beginning  of  each  week,  we 
receive  our  orders  from  the  surgeon  of  each  ward 
as  to  how  many  men  need  milk  punch,  extra  nour 
ishment,  etc.  The  wardmaster  also  has  a  list,  and 
his  duty  is  to  come  to  us,  get  their  drinks,  and  take 
them  to  them;  but  if  there  is  any  delay  the  ladies 
usually  take  them  to  the  men  themselves,  that  they 


32  NOTES     OP     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

may  be  certain  of  having  them  at  the  proper  time. 
M.  kindly  undertakes  that  part  of  the  work  to-day, 
so  let  us  get  on  with  our  unpacking. 

Let  us  take  out  this  bundle  and  see  what  it  is. 
Enter  at  this  moment  three  men,  each  bearing  a 
large  market-basket.  "  These  are  donations  from 
the  -  —Society;  please  let  us  have  the  baskets, 
and  an  acknowledgment  for  the  things."  This 
sounds  trifling,  but  it  means  that  everything  must 
be  taken  out,  a  list  made  and  sent  to  the  Officer  of 
the  Day  to  write  an  acknowledgment. 

Let  us  do  it  as  quickly  as  we  can  ;  but  here  comes 
one  of  our  wardmasters.  "  Well,  Henry,  what  do 
you  want  ?" 

"  Twelve  wounded  men,  ma'am,  just  come  in ; 
the  ambulances  we  were  looking  for  have  just  got 
here,  and  we  want  a  change  of  clothing  for  each 
of  them." 

"  Yes,  you  shall  have  them  at  once,  but  stand  out 
of  Green's  way;  look  what  he  and  William  are 
carrying." 

"Green,  where  did  those  come  from?"  Two 
large  boxes  of  oranges  and  one  of  lemons. 

"  Dr. says,  miss,  these  have  just  been  sent, 

and  he  would  like  to  have  them  picked  over,  as 
they're  spoiling  so  fast." 

"  Well,  try  and  find  a  place  for  them  on  the 
floor,  and  tell  Arnold  to  come  here  in  a  few  minutes, 
and  help  us  to  do  it." 


NOTES    OP     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  33 

You  may  wonder  that  we  do  not  leave  such  work 
entirely  to  the  men,  but  they  understand  "  picking 
them  over"  in  the  sense  of  "picking  and  stealing;" 
and  I  am  afraid  that  unless  we  assisted  there  would 
be  few  left  for  the  sick  when  the  work  was  done. 
The  men  are  always  ready  and  glad  to  help  us  in 
anything  that  we  allow  them  to  do;  indeed,  I  have 
often  been  surprised  at  the  promptness  with  which 
they  offer  their  services  to  spare  us  in  every  way ; 
to  carry  and  empty  water  for  us,  to  run  our  errands, 
to  watch  our  fire;  in  short,  to  render  any  little  ser 
vice  which  is  most  needed  at  the  moment,  and 
which  we  should  naturally  do  for  ourselves,  unless 
the  offer  were  made. 

Enter  a  group  of  women — I  humbly  beg  their 
pardon — ladies,  I  should  have  said.  Ah  !  I  know 
too  well  their  errand  before  they  speak.  Persons 
have  been  coming  all  the  week  for  the  same  pur 
pose. 

"Can  we  see  the  rebel?  Please  to  show  us  the 
ward  where  the  rebel  is  confined?" 

"  I  am  sorry,  ladies,  but  it  is  quite  impossible — 

"  Eight  punches  for  our  ward,  Miss ,  are  they 

ready?" 

"  Yes,  Williams,  standing  on  the  shelf  there;  take 
them  on  that  waiter." 

"  The  surgeon  in  charge  has  given  strict  orders 
that  no  visitors  are  to  be  admitted  to  that  ward, 


34  NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

as  there  are  some  men  dangerously  ill  there,  and 
he  wishes  it  kept  perfectly  quiet." 

"  But  we've  come  a  great  way  to  see  him,  and 
we  must  get  in." 

"Are  you  friends  of  his  ?  If  so,  I  will  see  the 
surgeon  about  it." 

"  Friends  of  a  rebel !  Not  exactly,  thank  you. 
We  want  to  see  what  he's  like." 

"  I  am  sorry,  but  you  cannot  see  him.  However, 
I  can  assure  you  that  he  is  exactly  like  any  of 
these  men  you  see  around  you ;  were  you  to  go 
into  the  ward  you  could  not  distinguish  him,  unless 
he  were  pointed  out  to  you." 

Enter  a  man,  with  a  large  glass  bowl  of  jelly. 

"  Mrs.  -  — 's  compliments,  and  please  give  me 
the  bowl  to  take  back." 

Mem.  Jelly  to  be  emptied;  nothing  to  empty 
it  into.  During  the  search,  gloomy  party  gaze 
moodily  upon  the  operation,  but  show  no  signs  of 
departure. 

"  Brown  says,  ma'am,  you  promised  to  poach 
him  a  couple  of  eggs  for  his  dinner;  he  sent  me 
to  see  if  they  were  done." 

"  It  is  not  dinner  time  yet;  tell  him  they  shall  be 
ready  when  he  hears  the  drum  tapped." 

"Have  you  a  flannel  shirt,  miss,  for  this  man? 
he's  just  come  in." 

Look  at  the  indignant  party;  they  are  evidently 
returning  to  the  assault. 


NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  35 

"  Where's  the  head  doctor  ?  He'll  let  us  in,  we'll 
see  if  he  won't !" 

"The  Surgeon  in  charge  is  not  here  at  present; 
the  Officer  of  the  Day  is  in  the  office ;  you  must 
have  seen  him  when  you  were  admitted." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  not  him ;  some  friends  told  us  to  ask 
for  the  ladies ;  that's  the  way  we  got  in ;  we  knew 
they  kept  the  rebel  so  close,  no  use  to  ask  for  him." 

A  woman  with  a  basket  of  eggs. 

"  Some  eggs  from  Mrs.  —  — •;  please  let  me  have 
the  basket." 

"  Yes,  an£  thank  Mrs. for  her  kindness ;  she 

never  forgets  us,  and  her  nice  fresh  eggs  are  most 
acceptable  to  the  sick  men.  And  now,  indeed  we 
must  hurry,  and  put  some  of  this  mass  of  things 
in  their  places  on  the  shelves;  for  this  table  will 
be  wanted,  after  dinner,  for  the  donations  from  the 
schools;  it  is  the  time  when  they  pour  in." 

"Does  he  eat  with  the  others?"  Supposed  to 
refer  to  the  rebel,  and  answered  accordingly. 

"Yes,  madam,  at  the  common  dining-table." 

"Does  he  talk  much?" 

"  That  I  cannot  inform  you,  as  I  have  never 
exchanged  a  word  with  him." 

"Do  they  treat  him  kindly?" 

"  Precisely  as  the  other  men  are  treated." 

"And  you  think  we  can't  see  him?" 

"  It  is  quite  impossible,  for  the  reasons  I  have 
mentioned." 


36  NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

"  Well,  Jane,  there's  no  use  waiting;  come  along; 
I  heard  there  was  one  at  the  -  -  hospital ;  let's 
go  there  and  try."  Discomfited  party  depart 
abruptly. 

I  am  glad  that  you  should  see  this  for  yourself; 
otherwise  I  think  you  would  hardly  credit  my 
statement,  that  this  has  not  happened  only  once 
or  twice,  but  literally  every  day  this  week,  with 
different  parties,  and  variations  in  the  modes  of 
trying  to  gain  admittance.  It  is  indeed  difficult 
to  account  for  this  morbid  curiosity  with  regard 
to  the  Southern  prisoners.  I  have  0  sometimes 
thought  that  it  might  be  an  unconscious  tribute 
to  loyalty,  and  that  the  crime  of  rebellion  was 
looked  upon  as  such  a  fearful  one,  that  it  must 
of  necessity  affect  even  the  external  appearance 
of  all  engaged  in  it;  be  that  as  it  may,  I  do  most 
sincerely  believe  that  were  Du  Chaillu  himself  to 
hold  an  exhibition  here  of  one  of  his  Gorillas,  it 
would  attract  less  attention  than  the  presence 
of  this  one  poor  misguided  rebel.  There!  while 
I  have  been  moralizing  upon  rebels  and  the  re 
bellion,  don't  you  think  I  have  given  that  shelf 
rather  a  neater  appearance,  and  that  the  table  is 
beginning  to  look  a  little  less  loaded;  but  oh,  dear! 
look  at  this  box  at  the  door;  what  more  is  coming? 
Oh !  I  see  what  it  is.  I  know  well  that  box  by 
the  flag  painted  on  the  top.  Kind  friends  from 
the  country  send  us  that;  we  have  a  duplicate 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  37 

key;  empty  and  return  it  to  have  it  filled  and 
sent  to  us  next  week.  The  contents  are  most 
acceptable,  but  as  you  see,  it  must  be  attended  to 
at  once,  and  as  exactly  this  work  will  go  on  till 
night,  I  think  you  have  had  quite  enough  of  it, 
and  had  better  say  goodbye  to  us  and  our  room. 
This  day,  just  as  you  have  seen  it,  is  a  counterpart 
of  every  day,  not  only  of  this  week,  but  of  the 
last  three  months.  It  will  not,  of  course,  continue; 
but,  although  we  would  be  the  last  to  check  the 
generosity  of  warm-hearted  friends,  it  makes  our 
duties  here  a  little  arduous  just  at  present. 

And  now  let  me  go  with  you  to  the  door,  and 
say  goodbye.  If  you  find  that  you  are  not  too 
much  wearied,  I  shall  hope  for  another  visit,  in 
some  future  week,  when  I  may  have  time  to  take 
you  through  the  wards,  and  I  can  show  you  some 
of  our  interesting  cases;  but  I  think  what  you 
have  seen  to-day,  will  furnish  the  best  answer  I 
could  give  to  your  question,  "  What  can  the  ladies 
find  to  do  there,  all  day?" 


38  NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 


A   MOENING   AT   THE   HOSPITAL. 

"  God's  finger  touched  him,  and  he  slept." 

A  STEADY,  pouring  rain.  The  fog,  which  in  the 
early  morning  hesitated  whether  to  roll  off  and 
give  us  one  of  those  beautiful,  bright  autumn  days, 
the  more  precious  because  we  feel  they  are  gliding 
so  rapidly  from  us,  or  to  come  down  in  rain,  seems 
to  have  decided  at  last,  and  a  dreary,  drenching 
rain  is  the  result.  As  we*  enter  the  hospital,  a 
glance  is  sufficient  to  tell  that  some  depressing 
influence  is  at  work ;  instead  of  the  bright,  happy 
laugh  which  so  often  astonishes  us  on  our  entrance, 
we  see  the  men  hanging  listlessly  and  languidly 
round;  some  grouped  in  a  corner  of  the  dining- 
room  round  a  piano,  which  a  few  generous  hearts 
have  supplied  for  their  amusement;  some  trying 
a  game  of  cards  or  back-gammon ;  others  lying 
on  benches,  "  chewing  the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter 
fancies,"  the  latter  class  having  the  ascendancy,  to 

*  Let  me  say  here,  once  for  all,  that  the  term  "  we  "  is  not  used 
as  the  petty  affectation  of  authorship,  but  is  formed  by  the  Lady 
Visitor  with  whom  I  am  associated, — the  "  M."  of  these  pages — whose 
untiring  self-sacrifice,  and  whole-souled  devotion  to  the  cause,  can 
only  be  appreciated  by  those  whose  pleasure  it  is  to  be  connected 
with  her  in  this  work. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  39 

judge  from  the  countenance.  Nor  is  the  scene 
brighter  in  the  wards;  the  damp  air  has  driven 
those  suffering  from  rheumatism  and  fever  to  their 
beds  once  more ;  and  after  the  first  bright  smile  of 
welcome,  which  never  fails  to  greet  us,  the  words, 
"  Poor  "William  there,  is  dying!"  are  sufficient  to 
account  for  the  depression,  without  waiting  for 
what  follows,  "  and  I  expect  I  shall  go  next." 

It  is  often  asserted  that  the  sight  of  such  con 
stant  suffering  and  death,  so  hardens  and  accus 
toms  the  men  to  the  fact,  that  they  do  not  appear 
to  feel  it  in  the  slightest  degree.  My  own  obser 
vation  has  led  to  a  directly  opposite  conclusion. 
It  is  only  natural,  that  a  death  here,  where  every 
trace  of  it  is  necessarily  so  speedily  removed,  ma}' 
and  must  be  as  speedily  forgotten ;  but,  at  the  time, 
I  have  always  noticed  a  far  greater  effect  from  it 
than  I  could  have  looked  for;  greater  respect  and 
sympathy  for  the  feelings  of  any  relations  present; 
greater  solemnity  in  witnessing  the  awful  change ; 
greater  tenderness  in  the  subsequent  care  of  the 
body.  As  an  illustration,  it  was  but  yesterday, 
that  one  of  the  wardmasters,  coming  for  a  shirt , 
to  lay  out  one  of  our  poor  fellows,  just  dead,  said, 
"  Give  me  any  one,  one  of  the  worst  will  do,"  and 
then,  as  though  the  words  struck  a  chord,  he  added 
instantly ;  "  One  of  the  worst !  Oh  !  how  sorry  I 
am,  I  said  that;  poor  fellow!  poor  fellow!  he 
wouldn't  have  said  that  for  me;"  and  as  I  turned, 


40  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

I  saw  the  rough  arm  in  its  red  flannel  shirt,  brush 
ing  away  a  tear,  of  which  he  surely  need  not  have 
been  ashamed. 

"  Poor  William  is  dying/'  Yes,  too  truly.  We 
need  not  the  words  of  the  Surgeon  in  charge,  as 
he  passes,  "Don't  trouble  him  with  that  poultice,  it 
is  too  late;"  one  glance  is  sufficient;  and  yet  as  I 
approached  the  bed  I  started  involuntarily.  The 
man  had  only  been  here  a  short  time,  and  had 
never  seemed  in  any  way  remarkable;  of  small 
size,  very  ordinary  appearance,  light  hair,  blue 
eyes,  and  a  quiet,  gentle  manner.  lie  had  not 
been  considered  in  danger,  though  suffering  from 
an  attack  of  acute  bronchitis;  for  in  this  war 
truly  may  it  be  said, 

"  Manifold 

And  dire,  0  Sickness  !  are  the  crucibles 
Wherein  thy  torturing  alchemy  assays 
The  spirit  of  man." 

But  now, —  could  it  be  the  same?  I  looked  at 
name  and  number  to  satisfy  myself.  I  have  no 
wish  to  exaggerate,  but  transfigured  was  the  word 
which  rose  to  my  mind  then,  and  whenever  I  have 
since  thought  of  that  face.  The  wonderful  change 
seemed  already  to  have  passed  upon  the  spirit, 
which  looked  forth  from  those  large,  clear,  blue 
eyes,  double  their  usual  size,  as  with  an  eager, 
wistful  gaze  they  were  evidently  fixed  upon  a 
vision  too  bright  for  our  earth-dimmed  sight,  while 
a  smile,  a  radiant  smile,  played  round  his  lips.  It 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  41 

was  not  the  poor  Private,  dying  afar  from  friends 
and  home,  alone  in  a  ward  of  a  hospital,  with  the 
pitiless  rain  pelting  overhead;  it  was  a  soul  passing 
from  earth,  resting  on  its  dear  Lord,  strengthened 
and  comforted  for  the  dread  journey  by  a  vision 
of  the  Guard  of  Angels  sent  to  bear  it  to  its  rest 
in  Paradise;  the  unearthly  peace,  the  blessed  bright 
ness  of  that  face,  could  not  be  mistaken. 

"  Death  upon  his  face 
Is  rather  shine  than  shade." 

The  doctor's  hand  is  on  his  pulse,  sustaining 
stimulants  are  steadily  given,  and  once  more  a 
fitful  gleam  of  life  appears ;  he  rallies  for  the 
moment.  We  hear  the  low  voice  of  the  chaplain, 
kneeling  at  his  side,  "  You  would  not  object  to  a 
prayer?"  The  wandering  eyes  say  more  than  the 
languid  lips,  which  can  but  frame,  in  a  tone  of 
surprise,  the  word,  "object?"  The  same  bright 
smile,  the  same  far-off  gaze  as  the  words  of  prayer 
ascend. 

"  You  are  trusting,  you  are  resting  on  the  merits 
of  your  precious  Saviour?" 

Once  more  that  strife,  that  sore  struggle  to 
speak ;  and  suddenly,  as  though  the  will  had 
mastered  the  flesh,  sounds  forth,  in  clear,  strong 
tones,  which  ring  through  the  ward,  "  My  only 
base,  my  foundation!"  Blessed  for  us  all,  when 
that  awful  hour  is  upon  us,  if  we  can  so  trustfully, 
4* 


42  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

so  fearlessly  meet  it;  so  fully  and  entirely  realize 
the  One  Eternal  Eock  to  be  our  "foundation." 

We  dare  no  longer  call  him  "poor  William;" 
rather,  as  we  kneel  by  his  side,  let  us  breathe  forth 
a  thanksgiving  for  such  beautiful  assurance,  that 
his  last  battle  is  fought,  his  victory  won. 

"  Little  skills  it  when  or  how, 
If  Thou  comest  then  or  now — 
With  a  smooth  or  angry  brow. 

"  Come  Thou  must,  and  we  must  die — 
Jesu,  Saviour,  stand  Thou  by, 
When  that  last  sleep  seals  our  eye!" 


NOTES     OP    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  43 


THE   TWO   AEMIES. 

U.  S.  A.  HOSPITAL,  September  29,  1862. 

I  TRUST,  dear  C.,  this  bright,  beautiful  day  may 
have  brought  you  as  much  pleasure  as  it  has  done 
to  me,  and  that  you  have  been  able  to  enjoy  it  as 
you  would  most  wish  to  do.  I  escaped  from  my 
duties  here  for  one  hour,  and  spent  it  you  know 
where.  On  my  return,  we  were  favored  with  a 
visit  from  the  Bishop  of  Minnesota,  who  is  here 
on  his  way  to  the  General  Convention. 

He  seemed  much  interested  in  going  through 
the  wards,  had  a  kind  word  and  friendly  greeting 
for  each  man.  One  thing  particularly  impressed 
me, — his  tact  in  addressing  them.  Instead  of  boring 
them  as  I  do  with  "  What  is  your  name  ?  What  is 
your  regiment?"  he  glanced  his  eye  upon  the  card 
at  the  head  of  the  bed,  whereon  all  such  particulars 
are  written,  and  then  said,  "  Who  is  the  colonel  of 
the  Forty-fourth?"  or,  "Was  the  Eighteenth  Mas 
sachusetts  much  cut  up  ? "  Instantly  the  man 
would  brighten,  feel  that  there  was  one  wTho  took 
a  personal  interest,  and  answer  with  promptness 
and  pleasure. 

This  may  seem  a  trifle,  but  to  gain  an  influence 


44  NOTES    OP    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

anywhere  trifles  must  be  considered,  and  are  often 
all-important.  My  inward  exclamation  was,  im 
mediately,  "  Here  is  one  who  has  been  accustomed 
to  dealing  with  men,  and  knows  how  to  reach 
them."  A  few  well-chosen  questions  will  often 
go  further,  and  be  of  more  benefit,  than  a  long 
sermon. 

As  you  have  expressed  some  interest  in  L , 

you  will  forgive  me  for  repeating  a  conversation 
to  which  this  visit  gave  rise.  A  little  later,  I 
returned  for  some  purpose  to  his  bedside. 

"  That's  a  nice  man  you  brought  here ;  what 
was  it  you  called  him?" 

"  The  title  I  gave  him,"  said  I,  "  he  gained  by 
promotion  in  our  Army." 

"  Our  army  !  I  knew  it,  by  the  way  he  talked ; 
then  he's  a  volunteer?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Ever  been  in  a  battle  ?" 

"  Many  of  them." 

"Wounded?" 

"  Often." 

"  That's  bully.  But  what  battles  ?  Fair  Oaks  ? 
That's  where  I  was  hit." 

"  He  never  told  me  so,  but  I  should  judge  his 
hardest  fights  were  before  the  breaking  out  of  this 
rebellion." 

"Ah,  in  Mexico?" 

"  No,  I  never  heard  of  his  being  in  Mexico." 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  45 

"  A  foreigner  ? " 

"  No,  I  believe  him  to  be  an  American." 

"  It  can't  be,  then,  for  he  looks  too  young  for 
our  other  war.  Didn't  he  tell  you  what  battles  ?" 

"No,  he  never  told  me,  nor  did  any  of  his 
friends." 

"  Then  how  the  -  — ,  I  beg  ten  thousand  par 
dons,  miss,  but  how  can  you  know  he  was  in  them?" 

"  Because  it  is  my  privilege  to  be  a  Private  in  the 
same  Army.  I  said  our  Army  was  the  one  in  which 
he  had  gained  promotion;  and  It's  peculiarity  is, 
that  It  will  receive  as  recruits  both  women  and 
children." 

Impossible  as  it  may  appear  to  you,  he  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  me  with  an  air  of  bewilderment,  and 
remained  perfectly  silent.  I  continued  : 

"Although  I  am  not  eligible  for  promotion  as  he 
is,  but  must  remain  a  Private  always,  I  have  had 
some  of  the  same  battles  to  fight,  and — 

"  Psha  !  you've  been  fooling  me  all  this  time,  and 
I  never  saw  it." 

I  smiled.  "  Not  fooling,"  I  said,  "  but  answering 
a  question  you  asked  the  other  day.  Have  you 
forgotten  when  you  said  '  Little  you  know  of 
battles!7  that  I  replied,  'And  yet,  maybe,  I  have 
fought  harder  ones  than  you  ever  did  ?'  You  then 
asked  me  what  under  the  sun  I  could  mean  ?  I 
promised  to  tell  you.  and  I  have  only  done  so  in 
a  round-about  way.  Have  you  forgotten  one 


46  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

thing   more?     What  was  it  I  asked  you  to  give 
up,  when  you  said  you  had  rather  be  shot  ?" 

His  color  rose,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"Doesn't  that  prove  that  my  battles,  and  those 
of  that  'nice  man/  as  you  term  the  bishop,  are 
harder  to  fight  than  yours?" 

"Well,  it's  truth  you're  saying;  I'd  liever  go 
back  to  my  regiment  to-morrow,  wounded  as  I 
am,  than  do  what  you  want,  though  I  know  you're 
right,  too;"  and  warmly  shaking  my  hand,  he 
drew  the  cover  over  his  head,  and  I  left  him  to 
meditate  upon  the  two  Armies. 

You  will  say  that  the  strain  after  originality  in 
such  conversations,  is  not  likely  to  be  an  over-tax 
of  the  mental  powers;  but  you  must  remember, 
that  what  to  you  may  be  but  a  wearying  platitude, 
may  be  a  seed,  to  one  who  receives  the  parallel  as  a 
novelty,  to  germinate  in  later  years. 

We  can  but  try  all  means,  and  leave  events  to 
God. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  47 


THE   CONTKAST. 

"  I  WISH  to  goodness  they  would  not  send  their 
men  here,  just  to  die  !" 

Such  was  the  exclamation,  in  no  very  amiable 
tone,  which  greeted  my  ear,  as  I  opened  the  door 
of  one  of  the  wards  of  our  hospital. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Wilson  ?"  said  I,  to  our 
usually  cheerful  wardmaster. 

u  Oh  !  nothing,  miss;  I  beg  your  pardon,  only 
there's  a  young  fellow,  just  brought  in,  who,  the 
doctor  thinks,  can't  live  over  the  day,  and  I  hate 
to  have  them  dying  on  my  hands,  that's  all." 

"  Wounded  or  sick  ?" 

:i  It's  the  typhoid,  and  as  had  a  case  as  ever  I 
saw  yet,  and  I've  seen  a  heap  of  them,  too.  There 
he  is,  but  he's  past  speaking;  he'll  never  rouse 
again." 

I  approached  the  bed,  where  lay  a  "  young 
fellow,"  truly:  a  boy,  scarcely  more  than  sixteen; 
his  long,  thick  hair  matted  and  tangled ;  his 
clothing  torn  and  soiled;  his  eyes  half  closed; 
his  lips  dark  and  swollen ;  a  bright  flush  on  his 
cheeks,  and  his  breath  coming  in  quick,  short, 
feverish  pantings,  as  though  much  oppressed.  I 


48  NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

saw  it  was  quite  in  vain  to  speak  to  him,  and 
merely  tried  to  make  him  swallow  the  beef  tea, 
which  had  been  ordered  to  be  given  him  at  certain 
intervals. 

He  swallowed  with  much  difficulty,  but  still  it 
was  something  that  he  could  do  even  this;  and  I 
found  that  although  unable  to  speak,  he  understood 
and  endeavored  to  obey,  directions.  I  therefore 
ventured  to  doubt  Wilson's  verdict,  and  continued 
to  administer  the  stimulants  as  directed.  Towards 
afternoon  there  was  a  perceptible  improvement  in 
his  swallowing;  he  roused  partially,  and  attempted 
to  turn.  I  begged  Wilson  to  watch  him  closely 
through  the  night,  keeping  up  the  nourishment 
and  stimulants;  urging  as  a  motive  that,  as  he 
wasn't  fond  of  deaths,  this  was  the  best  mode 
of  preventing  them. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I'll  watch  him  as  close  as 
you  could,  miss,  but  it's  no  use.  I've  seen  too 
many  cases  to  think  that  poor  lad  can  weather 
thro'  it;  I  reckon  you're  new  to  this  sort  of  thing, 
or  you  would  know  it  too." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  a  saying,  Wilson,  '  Duties 
are  ours,  events  are  God's?'  Try,  I  only  ask  you 
to  try." 

The  next  morning,  when  I  wralked  in,  I  scarcely 
recognized  our  patient ;  in  addition  to  clean  cloth 
ing,  combed  and  cut  hair,  his  eyes  were  open,  large, 
bright,  and  sparkling  with  a  feverish  brilliancy. 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL     LIFE.  49 

He  was  talking  in  a  loud,  excited  tone ;  evidently 
the  stupor  had  passed  off;  whether  a  favorable 
change,  or  denoting  increase  of  fever,  I  wras  not 
competent  to  decide. 

As  I  drew  near,  I  was  a  little  startled  by  the 
abrupt  question,  "Arc  you  the  woman  gave  me 
the  drinks  yesterday?" 

I  assented,  sure  that  no  discourtesy  was  intended 
by  the  use  of  the  good  old  Anglo-Saxon  term. 
Strange,  that  by  some  singular  freak  of  language 
or  ideas,  which,  I  think,  it  would  puzzle  even  the 
learned  Dean  of  Westminster  himself  to  explain, 
this  once  honored  title  has,  at  the  present  day, 
come  to  be  almost  a  term  of  reproach;  certainly, 
as  I  have  said,  of  discourtesy.  Were  this  the  place 
to  moralize,  I  might  see  in  this  change  a  proof  of 
the  degeneracy  of  modern  days;  and  question, 
whether  in  yielding  this  precious  name, —  sacred 
forever,  and  ennobled  by  the  use  once  made  of  it, 
—Woman  is  not  in  danger  of  yielding  also  the 
high  and  noble  qualities  which  should  ever  be 
linked  with  its  very  sound. 

My  assent  was  followed  instantly  by  another 
equally  abrupt  question,  "  Then  you'll  tell  me 
where  do  people  go  when  they  die  ?  That  man, 
there — I  heard  him — said  I  was  dying;  I've  been 
asking  him  all  night,  and  he  won't  tell  me." 

"  If  you  will  mind  what  I  say  no\v,  and  try  to 
5 


50  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

be  very  still,  when  you  have  less  fever,  I  will  talk 
to  you  and  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know." 

"  I'll  be  dead  then,  and  I  want  to  know  before 
I  die." 

Very  sure  that  any  excitement  at  present  must 
be  injurious,  after  several  ineifectual  attempts  to 
divert  his  mind,  I  deemed  it  best  to  leave  him, 
making  an  excuse  of  other  duties,  and  promising 
to  return  if  he  would  try  to  keep  quiet.  The  sur 
geon's  report  was  favorable ;  the  change  in  him 
was  quite  unexpected,  and  recovery  was  possible, 
though  by  no  means  probable. 

I  left  him  alone,  purposely,  for  some  hours ;  but 
the  moment  I  re-entered  the  ward  he  exclaimed, 
"  Now  you  will  tell  me." 

Judging  it  better  to  quiet  his  mind,  I  sat  down 
and  spoke  to  him  quietly  and  gently  of  his  home. 
Home !  the  talisman  which  charms  away  all  pain 
and  soothes  all  sorrow.  Should  any  one  ask  how 
to  reach  the  men  ?  how  gain  an  influence  over 
them  ?  I  would  reply  by  pointing  them  to  Na 
poleon's  policy,  or  later,  to  our  own  Burnside, 
and  let  the  fields  of  Eoanoke  and  Newbern  bear 
witness  to  the  success  of  the  experiment.  Attack 
the  centre.  Storm  the  heart.  Make  a  man  speak 
of  his  home.  Listen,  while  he  tells  with  bitter 
self-reproach,  how  he  enlisted  without  consent; 
and  how,  since  then,  the  night  wind's  wail  seems 
mourning  mother's  moan ;  listen  to  the  tearful 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  51 

tale  of  the  loneliness  of  some  brave-hearted  wife, 
who  sent  her  treasure  forth,  and  battles  nobly  on 
at  home ;  (which  is  the  harder  strife  ?)  or  of  the 
parting  hour,  and  clinging  clasp  of  little  arms 
round  that  rough  neck,  which  would  not  be  undone, 
and  which  may  never  tighten  there  again.  And 
once  more  listen,  as  I  did  yesterday,  to  an  account 
of  a  return  home,  on  a  furlough,  of  one  bronzed 
and  weather-beaten  by  severe  service  and  exposure; 
the  joyful  expectation;  the  journey;  the  gradual 
approach  to  the  well-known  gate;  every  detail 
dwelt  upon  and  lingered  over;  "And,  if  you'll 
believe  it,  my  Charlie  didn't  know  me  !  I  couldn't 
stand  it  nohow ;"  and  the  tears  which  will  not  be 
repressed,  fall  thickly  on  the  crutches  at  his  side. 
Lead  a  man,  I  say,  to  tell  you  such  things  as  these, 
and  he  can  never  again  feel  towards  you  as  a 
stranger;  he  will  bring  you  his  letters,  or  tell  you 
their  contents,  with  a  feeling  that  you  know  the 
persons  therein  mentioned,  and  will  sympathize 
with  either  his  joy  or  sorrow.  The  citadel  is  won; 
he  has  put  the  key  into  your  hands  which  you  may 
rit  at  any  moment  to  the  lock  of  his  heart,  and 
enter  at  will ;  thus  is  a  bond  established  between 
you,  for  the  proper  improvement  of  which  you 
will  be  responsible  in  the  sight  of  God. 

But  this  victory,  like  many  another  we  have 
won,  is  a  very  partial  one;  the  fortress  may  be 
gained,  but  the  difficulty  is  to  hold  it.  and  garrison 


52  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

it  with  the  troops  that  we  would  fain  see  there. 
Golden  Charity,  the  commander-in-chief  of  our 
forces,  has  had,  and  will  yet  have,  many  a  weary 
battle  to  wage,  ere  She  can  obtain  even  a  foothold 
in  such  unwonted  quarters ;  but  with  the  all-im 
portant  aid  of  Her  staff  officers,  Faith  and  Hope, 
wTe  look  for  final  success,  even  though  we  may  not 
be  permitted  to  see  it. 

But  do  not  imagine  that  poor  Ennis  has  been  the 
victim  of  this  digression.  After  a  few  moments' 
conversation,  the  eager,  excited  tone  died  away, 
and  he  told  me  quietly  that  he  had  been  brought 
up  in  "the  woods  of  Jersey;"  had  driven  a  team 
there,  and  worked  on  a  farm ;  spoke  of  his  igno 
rance  with  pain ;  the  great  grief  seemed  to  be 
that  he  could  not  read;  if  he  should  live,  wouldn't 
I  teach  him  ? 

"  Nobody  never  taught  me  nothing ;  will  God 
mind,  if  I  should  die?" 

"  Did  your  mother  never  teach  you  your  letters?" 

"  She  don't  know  'em  herself." 

A  little  more  talk,  and  the  sentences  became 
broken,  the  words  disconnected,  and  ere  long  I 
left  him  in  a  natural,  comfortable  sleep. 

He  suffered  terribly  from  pain  in  his  head,  arid 
the  doctor  had  forbidden  all  unnecessary  noise  in 
the  ward.  I  was  therefore  not  a  little  surprised 
the  next  morning  as  I  approached  the  door,  to 
hear  loud,  noisy  singing,  laughing  and  talking 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  53 

alternately,  such  as  I  had  never  at  any  time  heard 
since  I  had  visited  the  hospital. 

I  paused  at  the  door,  hesitating  to  enter,  and 
knowing  the  state  in  which  I  had  left  Ennis, 
both  provoked  and  indignant.  Just  at  that  mo 
ment,  one  of  the  orderlies  came  out,  and  to  my 
question  as  to  the  meaning  of  the  disturbance, 
informed  me  that  a  new  case  of  violent  fever  and 
delirium  had  just  been  brought  in,  and  as  the  other 
wards  were  crowded,  it  had  been  a  necessity  to 
place  him  here.  Thus  re-assured,  I  walked  in, 
when  Wilson  at  once  came  up  to  me  with,  •'  Oh, 
Miss  -  -  if  you  would  only  try.  This  man's  out 
of  his  head — he  can't  live — and  the  doctor  ordered 
us  to  find  out  where  his  friends  are,  if  possible,  and 
let  them  know.  He  has  a  good  deal  of  money  in 
his  knapsack,  and  we  should  like  to  know  what  to 
do  with  it ;  if  his  friends  are  far  off,  they  couldn't 
be  here  in  time,  but  wre  can't  tell." 

"Has  he  had  no  intervals  of  consciousness?"  1 
asked,  not  caring  to  show  how  I  shrank  from  the 
task. 

"  None,  and  he  won't  have  till  he  goes  into  a 
stupor,  and  then  the  game's  up." 

I  was  too  much  worried  at  the  time  to  ask 
whether  an  "interval  of  consciousness"  wTas  sup 
posed  to  exist  during  a  stupor,  as  his  words  seemed 
to  imply,  and  merely  said, 


64  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

"But  if  you  have  tried  in  vain,  what  object  is 
there  in  my  speaking  to  him?" 

As  I  spoke,  a  burst  of  noisy,  insane  laughter 
came  from  his  lips,  and  rang  discordantly  through 
the  ward ;  he  tried  to  spring  from  his  bed,  but  was 
forcibly  held  on  each  side. 

"  Perhaps  it's  no  good,  miss,  but  it  seemed  our 
last  chance,  and  if  you'd  just  try?" 

Here  was  a  trial.  And  yet,  had  I  enlisted  only 
for  sunny  weather  ?  Was  I  to  shrink  at  the  first 
chance  of  service  ?  Nevertheless,  I  did  shrink,  and, 
I  fear,  very  visibly,  too;  but  I  felt  I  must  go  for 
ward,  or  deserve  to  be  stricken  from  the  rolls. 
Could  the  exact  springs  of  all  our  actions  be 
knowrn,  I  fear  it  would  too  often  be  seen  that 
they  arise  in  many  cases  from  motives  which  we 
should  be  most  unwilling  to  confess;  so  in  this 
case,  I  sincerely  believe  that  it  was  the  shame  of 
uttering  the  simple  truth  "  I  am  afraid  of  him," 
which  led  me  straight  to  his  bedside,  far  more 
than  the  benevolent  wish  of  informing  distant 
relatives  of  his  dying  condition. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  him  mention  any  of  his 
family  at  any  time?"  said  I  to  Wilson,  as  we 
crossed  the  ward,  half  to  keep  him  with  me,  and 
half  to  know  how  to  address  this  dreaded,  wild- 
looking  creature. 

"  Yes,  he  did  say  something  once  about  a  sister, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  55 

but  if  we  ask  him  anything  further,  he  bursts  out 
singing  or  laughing,  and  it's  no  use." 

The  power  of  the  eye  I  had  frequently  heard  of, 
and  also  that  a  single,  direct  question,  often  steadies 
the  unbalanced  mind.  I  could  but  try  them  now. 
I  had  an  indistinct  impression,  as  I  drew  near,  that 
it  would  be  easier  to  face  the  hottest  fire  of  the 
fiercest  foe  in  the  field,  than  the  glare  of  those 
eyes;  but,  trying  to  look  at  him  steadily,  I  said, 
slowly  and  distinctly, 

"  What  is  your  sister's  name  ?" 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  surprised  and 
perfectly  silent,  and  then,  to  my  utter  amazement, 
replied  with  equal  distinctness,  "  Susanna  Weaver." 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?" 

"  Westchester,  Pennsylvania." 

This  was  so  evidently  a  success,  that  I  ventured 
further,  though  doubtful  of  the  result. 

"  How  do  you  direct  your  letters  ?"  No  hesita 
tion, 

"Mrs.  Susanna  Weaver,  care  of  James  Weaver, 
shoemaker,  Westchester,  Pennsylvania." 

As  he  uttered  the  last  word,  a  man  who  had  just 
come  in,  came  up  to  me. 

"  What  he  says,  ma'am,  ain't  no  use ;  he's  out  of 
his  head,  and  he  don't  mean  it." 

I  said  nothing  in  reply,  but  was  satisfied  as  to 
the  truth  of  my  own  conclusions,  when,  two  days 
afterwards,  I  walked  in  to  see  the  veritable  Su- 


56  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

sanna,  wife  of  James  Weaver,  shoemaker,  portly, 
patronizing,  and  polite,  fanning  her  apparently 
insensible  brother,  and  applying  ice  to  his  temples, 
for  the  dreaded  stupor  had  come  on. 

My  poor  Erinis  lay  for  a  long  time  in  a  low, 
exhausted  state;  but  the  doctor  gave  hope,  and 
at  length  he  began  perceptibly  to  improve.  His 
eagerness  to  be  taught  —  more  especially  upon 
religious  subjects — continued;  there  was  something 
so  simple  and  childlike  about  him ;  so  touching  in 
the  terror  which  he  felt  with  regard  to  death ;  so 
winning  in  his  weakness,  so  gentle  in  his  goodness, 
or  his  aims  after  it,  that  I  could  not  help  becoming 
deeply  interested  in  him.  He  knew  that  there  was 
a  God — a  Being  to  be  dreaded  in  his  view — a  Life 
after  death;  beyond  this  —  nothing.  Our  blessed 
Lord's  life  and  death,  His  work  on  earth,  His 
giving  His  life  for  us,  all  seemed  new  and  strange 
ideas  which  he  could  with  difficulty  grasp.  Never 
can  I  forget  the  intense  interest  with  which  he 
followed  me,  step  by  step,  through  the  dark  and 
dread  story  of  The  Last  Week;  I  almost  feared 
the  excitement  which  burned  in  his  eager  eyes, 
till,  as  I  closed,  his  pent-up  feelings  found  vent  in 
the  words,  "It  was  too  bad!"  His  powers  of 
language  were  limited,  not  so  his  powers  of  feeling; 
and  I  imagine  that  we,  to  whom  that  mighty  mys 
tery  is  so  familiar  from  childhood,  can  scarcely 
conceive  its  effect  when  heard  for  the  first  time. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  57 

He  took  perfect  delight  in  hearing  and  learning 
the  prayers  from  the  Prayer-book,  and  would  ask 
for  them  constantly.  And  here  I  must  speak  of 
the  wonderful  power  which  seems  to  live,  in  the 
short,  terse  nature  of  our  matchless  Collects,  to 
stay  a  weak  and  wandering  mind ;  "  the  soul  by 
sickness  all  unwound"  cannot  bear  many  Avords; 
but  the  concentration  of  devotion,  in  many  of 
those  short,  earnest  sentences,  seems  to  meet  every 
longing  and  to  supply  every  want.  As  Ennis  so 
greatly  needed  instruction,  at  my  request  a  clergy 
man,  who  had  frequently  visited  the  hospital,  and 
whose  ministrations  were  always  peculiarly  ac 
ceptable  to  the  men,  came  often  and  spent  much 
time  with  him.*  At  one  time,  when  I  was  not  on 
duty,  he  sent  for  me.  "Why  did  you  want  me, 
Ennis,  the  ladies  who  are  here  are  so  very  kind 
to  you,  and  do  everything  you  can  want?" 

"Not  you,  but  I  do  so  want  that  pretty  prayer 
you  know."  The  "  Prayer  for  a  sick  person  "  from 
our  Prayer-book.  I  doubt  whether  any  one  was 
ever  more  gratified,  by  being  told  that  they  were 
not  wanted  personally,  but  merely  for  what  they 
could  bring. 

I  must  return  here,  for  a  little  while,  to  my  old 
friend,  whose  delirium  and  stupor,  to  the  wonder 

*  This  was,  of  course,  before  the  Government  appointment  of  our 
present  faithful  and  efficient  Chaplain,  whose  earnest  and  self-denying 
labors  render  any  such  service  quite  needless. 


58  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

alike  of  physicians  and  nurses,  passed  off,  after 
many  weeks  of  tedious  suffering,  during  which 
time  I  had  talked  to  him,  read  to  him,  and  written 
letters  at  his  dictation,  quite  unconscious  that  he 
was  still  very  much  under  the  influence  of  fever. 
His  sister  remained  till  she  saw  that  he  would 
probably  live,  and  then  was  obliged  to  return  to 
her  home.  He  could  carry  on  a  perfectly  rational 
conversation,  although  always  inclined  to  excite 
ment;  and  it  was  quite  evident,  from  the  whole 
tone  of  his  remarks,  that  his  "  hoary  hairs"  were 
anything  but  a  "  crown  of  righteousness."  1  link 
these  two  cases  together  because  they  were  so 
linked,  strangely  enough,  from  the  beginning,  and 
still  more  in  the  end,  and  so  must  ever  remain  in 
my  mind. 

Several  weeks  passed  by,  during  which  I  was 
not  at  the  hospital ;  and  when  I  returned,  what 
was  my  surprise  to  find  our  patient  up,  dressed, 
and  seated  by  the  stove.  "  Why,  Jackson,  is  it 
possible  ?  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  so  much 
better." 

He  looked  at  me  without  a  sign  of  recognition, 
rose,  bowed,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Don't  you  remember  me,  or  what  is  the  mat 
ter  ?"  said  I,  thoroughly  puzzled. 

"  I  never  saw  you  before,  ma'am,  did  I  ?  Never 
to  my  knowledge." 

"Well  done  for  you,  Jackson!"  and  "That's  a 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  59 

good  one,  isn't  it?"  burst  from  more  than  one 
of  the  men,  with  a  hearty  laugh. 

He  looked  troubled  and  bewildered.  I  saw  the 
whole  thing  at  once.  "Never  mind,  Jackson," 
said  I,  "you  have  been  very  ill, — as  ill  as  it  was 
possible  to  be  to  recover,  and  you  remember  noth 
ing  of  that  time ;  I  suppose  it  seems  like  a  long 
dream." 

Such  was  precisely  the  case.  Even  the  weeks 
when  I  had  supposed  him  perfectly  conscious,  were 
all  a  blank ;  he  had  not  the  slightest  recollection 
even  of  being  brought  in,  and  of  nothing  after 
wards  until  the  weeks  during  which  I  had  been 
away. 

My  pale,  attenuated  boy,  too,  was  changed  into 
the  round,  ruddy  young  soldier,  looking  particu 
larly  well  in  his  uniform.  As  is  so  frequently  the 
case  in  typhoid  fevers,  he  had  gained  flesh  rapidly, 
as  he  recovered,  and  felt  all  the  buoyancy  and 
brightness  of  a  thorough  convalescence.  I  could 
not  avoid  comparing  and  contrasting  the  two 
cases.  Both  brought  in  with  the  same  disease ; 
in  the  same  apparently  hopeless  state;  the  same 
surprise  excited  by  the  recovery  of  each;  but  here 
the  parallel  ceased.  The  one,  scarcely  more  than 
a  child, —  a  beardless  boy,  with  smooth,  polished 
brow,  rising  with  all  the  vigor  of  youth  from  this 
terrible  illness,  and  throwing  off  the  disease  as 
completely  as  though  it  had  never  touched  him. 


60  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

The  other,  worn  and  scarred  by  life's  conflicts 
more  than  by  time ;  his  brow  deeply  furrowed 
more  by  excess  than  years ;  his  hair  prematurely 
whitened,  rising,  it  is  true,  from  the  disease,  but 
how? — without  spirit,  energy,  or  any  sort  of  spring; 
wearily  dragging  one  foot  after  the  other;  listlessly 
and  languidly  sitting  hour  after  hour  upon  his  bed, 
scarcely  noticing  or  speaking  to  any  one.  His 
time  of  life  would  of  necessity  give  a  slower  con 
valescence,  but  there  wTas  far  more  against  him 
than  this :  a  constitution  broken  and  ruined,  as 
we  soon  found,  by  bad  habits,  which  he  renewed  as 
soon  as  permitted  to  go  out,  producing,  of  course, 
a  relapse.  Long  before  I  knew  this,  I  wras  con 
scious  that  I  could  never  overcome  my  repugnance 
to  the  man;  at  first  I  attributed  the  feeling  to  the 
extreme  dread  of  him  I  had  felt  at  our  first  meet 
ing,  and  which  I  could  not  forget;  but  I  soon 
became  convinced  that  there  was  a  stronger  reason. 
If  inward  purity  writes  itself  upon  the  outward 
form,  (and  who  can  question  that  it  does?)  the 
converse  is  equally  true.  There  is  a  sort  of  in 
stinct,  or  rather — for  that  is  too  low  a  term — a  sort 
of  spiritual  consciousness,  which  warns  us  when 
evil  is  near;  that  part  of  our  being  puts  forth 
feelers,  as  it  were,  moral  antennae,  which  extend 
themselves  in  congenial  soil,  but  recoil  at  the 
touch  of  corruption  of  any  sort. 

Ennis  soon   brought  me  a  spelling-book,  given 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  61 

him  by  one  of  the  men,  and  claimed  my  promise 
to  teach  him  to  read.  Most  faithfully  he  studied, 
but  just  as  we  were  priding  ourselves  upon  our 
progress,  and  he  was  triumphantly  mastering  the 
mysteries  of  "  It  is  he/'  "  I  am  in,"  the  order  came, 
and  by  a  strange  chance,  Jackson  and  he  were  to 
go  on  to  Washington  together,  to  rejoin  their 
different  regiments.  This  I  exceedingly  regretted, 
as  I  looked  upon  Jackson  as  very  far  from  a  de 
sirable  companion  or  example  for  a  young  boy 
like  Ennis.  This  feeling  was  confirmed,  when,  on 
the  morning  of  their  departure,  Jackson  came  to 
bid  me  goodbye,  with  unsteady  step  and  bloodshot 
eye.  I  spoke  as  I  felt,  strongly  and  sternly,  as  I 
could  not  but  feel  towards  one  so  lately  raised 
from  the  very  gate  of  death,  and  thus  requiting 
the  Love  and  Mercy  which  had  spared  him.  1 
know  not.  and  it  matters  not  what  I  said,  but  when 
I  spoke  of  the  fearful  responsibility  which  would 
rest  upon  his  soul,  should  he  lead  that  child  com 
mitted  to  his  care  into  sin,  he  looked  surprised 
and  startled,  and  promised  me,  in  the  most  solemn 
manner,  that  he  should  come  to  no  evil  through 
him.  It  would  have  eased  my  heart  of  a  heavy 
load,  could  I  have  relied  more  implicitly  upon  that 
promise  ;  but,  after  all,  such  feelings  are  but  a  want 
of  Faith ;  because  the  visible  guard  was  the  last 
that  I  should  have  chosen  for  him.  I  forgot  that 
that  young  boy  went  forth  attended  by  a  bright. 
6 


62  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

unseen  Guard,  to  guide  and  protect  him  through 
every  step  of  his  way.  And  so  we  parted.  Weeks 
have  formed  themselves  into  months,  and  months 
have  formed  themselves  into  a  year,  but  I  have 
never  heard  of  them,  or  even  seen  their  names, 
and  cannot  tell  whether  they  are  numbered  among 
the  living  or  the  dead. 

I  can  scarcely  tell  why  it  is,  but  there  arc  no 
cases,  in  all  the  memories  of  hospital  life,  which 
stand  out  so  clearly  stereoscoped  upon  my  brain, 
as  the  two  of  which  I  have  just  spoken. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  63 


BKOWNING. 

THIS  morning,  as  I  opened  the  door  of  the  ladies' 
room  at  the  hospital,  I  found  M.,  as  usual,  before 
me  at  her  post  busily  working.  She  greeted  me 
with  "  Mr.  -  -  (our  chaplain)  has  just  been  in,  to 
say  that  Browning  is  to  be  baptized  this  morning, 
and  he  would  like  us  to  be  present;  so  we  shall 
have  to  be  prompt  with  our  work." 

This  Browning  was  a  striking  instance  of  the 
mercy  and  long-suffering  of  our  dear  Lord  and 
Master.  After  a  wholly  irreligious  life,  he  had 
entered  the  army,  (though  quite  advanced  in 
years,)  at  the  breaking  out  of  the  rebellion,  where, 
instead  of  being  struck  down  by  a  bullet,  a  long 
and  suffering  illness  in  the  hospital  had  been  gra 
ciously  granted  to  him;  it  had  borne  its  fruit,  and 
this  day,  the  brow  furrowed  by  sin,  and  the  hair 
whitened  in  the  service  of  another  master,  are 
to  be  moistened  by  baptismal  waters. 

He  has  been  perfectly  blind  for  many  days,  and 
is  evidently  sinking.  At  the  appointed  hour  we 
gather  around  his  bed,  the  Chaplain,  the  Surgeon 
in  charge,  (whose  presence  and  interest  in  the 
occasion  impress  the  men  far  more  than  he  ima- 


64  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

gines,)  M.,  and  myself.  The  holy  words  are  pro 
nounced,  and  he  is  enlisted  as  "  Christ's  faithful 
soldier  and  servant  unto  his  life's  end;"  that  end, 
which,  alas  !  seems  so  very  near.  As  we  approach 
to  speak  to  him,  he  looks  up.  no  longer  with  the 
blank,  vacant  gaze  of  sightless  eyes,  which  he  has 
worn  for  so  many  days,  but  with  a  bright  smile 
of  recognition,  saying,  in  a  tone  almost  of  surprise, 
"  Friends,  dear  friends,  God  has  given  me  light." 
I  thought  he  alluded  to  the  light  which  had  just 
dawned  upon  his  spirit,  but  not  so ;  it  seemed  as 
though  the  inward  illumination  had  indeed  ex 
tended  to  his  physical  frame;  sight  was  restored 
to  the  darkened  eye  of  the  body  also,  and  merci 
fully  continued  during  the  few  remaining  days  of 
his  life.  To  the  many,  this  fact  will  appear  a 
strange  coincidence ;  to  the  few,  something  more. 

Scarcely  has  the  closing  prayer  ascended;  scarcely 
have  we  turned  to  leave  the  bedside,  when  there  is 
a  bustle — an  excitement — a  sudden  stir.  "A  man 
dying  in  the  third  ward  ;  come  quickly,  come,  won't 
you?" 

We  hasten  to  the  spot,  and  to  our  surprise  find 
that  the  Angel  of  Death  is  before  us.  A  man.  whom 
we  had  been  watching  for  some  time,  ill  with  that 
terrible  scourge  —  the  Chickahominy  fever  —  and 
whom  we  had  left  not  half  an  hour  since,  appa 
rently  in  no  danger,  by  some  strange  change  is 
suddenly  and  certainly  dying.  His  sister,  who  has 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL     LIFE.  05 

been  watching  him,  night  and  day,  had  left  him  to 
prepare  some  drink  for  him;  in  her  absence  he  had 
attempted  to  rise  from  his  pillow;  the  effort  was 
too  much,  and  he  had,  as  she  imagined,  fainted. 

But  to  any  eye,  whose  sad  lot  it  has  been  to  watch 
that  dark,  cold,  grey  shadow,  once  seen,  never  for 
gotten,  marvellous  in  its  mystery,  strange  in  its 
stern  solemnity,  as  it  slowly  settles  on  some  loved 
face ;  to  any  ear,  that  has  listened  to  those  long, 
convulsive  breaths,  with  their  longer  and  more 
dreadful  intervals,  it  could  not  but  be  evident 
that  this  was  no  fainting,  but  the  terrible  sun 
dering  of  soul  and  body.  Man's  hand  here  was 
powerless.  In  answer  to  the  sister's  agonized  ap 
peal  to  the  surgeon,  brandy  is  offered,  but  in  vain  ; 
and  we  stand  silently  and  sadly  waiting  till  the 
dread  struggle  shall  be  ended.  And  still  we  stand, 
and  still  we  wait.  It  seems  as  though  something 
held  and  chained  the  soul  to  earth ;  it  cannot  part 
— it  cannot  burst  its  earthly  case. 

One  by  that  bed  whispers  to  the  chaplain  — 

"  The  Last  Prayer/' 

We  kneel  once  more,  and  once  more  the  wonder 
ful  words  of  the  Prayer-book  speak  for  us  in  our 
hour  of  need.  It  is  enough.  The  cord  is  broken 
—  the  chain  is  loosed;  the  soul  seems  to  rise  upon 
the  wings  of  those  solemn  words;  for  ere  they  are 
done,  a  broken-hearted  sister  feels  that  she  is  alone. 

It  is  not  desirable  to  enter  upon  any  description 
0* 


65  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

of  the  sorrowful  scene  of  excited  and  undisciplined 
grief  which  followed;  three  hours  afterwards,  we 
succeeded  in  inducing  her  to  take  an  anodyne  and 
go  to  bed.  Character,  mental  training,  and  spiritual 
attainment,  are  never  more  clearly  shown  than  in 
the  manner  in  which  a  great  sorrow  is  borne; 
much,  of  course,  depends  upon  temperament,  but 
as  a  rule,  I  think  we  may  safely  affirm,  that  the 
most  violent  outward  expression  has  the  least 
inward  root;  that  the  griefs  which  crush  and 
slowly  sap  life,  are  seldom  noisily  and  vehe 
mently  vented  in  their  first  freshness. 

That  night,  as  I  sat  where  the  soft  shadows  of 
summer  moonlight  played  peacefully  in  and  out 
among  grand  old  trees,  my  thoughts  naturally 
clung  to  the  scenes  through  which  I  had  been 
passing,  and  dwelt  upon  those  two  who  had  both, 
though  so  differently,  that  day  "  entered  into  Life;" 
the  one,  through  the  Golden  Gate  of  Baptism ;  the 
other,  through  "  the  grave  and  gate  of  death ;"  and 
in  the  calmness  of  that  still  night,  the  fervent  wish 
arose,  that  they  might  both  attain  a  "joyful  resur 
rection,  for  His  merits,  Who  died,  and  was  buried, 
and  rose  again  for  us." 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  67 


THE   TWO   ANGELS. 

U.  S.  A.  HOSPITAL,  August,  1862. 
'Tis  a  hospital  ward,  and  the  sun's  cheerful  rays 

Light  up  many  a  bed  of  pain, 
As  the  sufferers,  seeking  so  sadly  for  ease, 

Turn  wearily  once  and  again. 

A  small  group  is  gathered  round  one  of  the  beds, 

Come  with  me,  and  stand  by  its  side, 
Whilst  the  voice  of  the  Priest  softly  sounds  on  the  air 

As  he  pours  the  Baptismal  tide 

By  pillows  supported,  in  sore  strife  for  breath, 

See  one  enter  that  Army  within  • 
Whose  Captain  accepts  all  the  maim'd  and  the  halt, 

AVhose  service  is  no  worth  to  Him. 

0,  wonderful  Mercy,  unspeakable  Love ! 

Who  gave  all  His  best  for  our  sake ; 
The  few  faded  fragments  and  dregs  of  lost  life, 

When  offered,  at  latest,  will  take. 

Holy  words  are  pronounced,  and  his  brow  with  wet  Cross, 

Is  sparkling  with  strange,  wondrous  light; 
Whence  comes  It  ?     We  see  by  that  awe-stricken  face 

That  no  longer,  as  erst,  is  it  night. 

There  are  moments  in  life,  when,  from  earthly  thoughts  freed, 

To  our  sight  purer  vision  is  given  ; 
Can  we  doubt  that  bright  Presence — the  Angel  of  Life — 

As  It  floats  thro'  the  air,  is  from  Heaven  ? 

White  Wings  are  extended — no  poet's  mere  dream — 

But  truly  protecting  that  head  ; 
And  the  Peace,  passing  earth,  settles  soft  on  our  souls, 

As  we  kneel  by  that  hospital  bed. 

A  bustle,  a  noise  and  a  crowd,  and  a  stir ! 

Some  one's  dying!  oh!  come  quickly,  come  ! 
We  hasten,  but  Man  may  not  stay  that  Dread  Hand, 

With  its  summons  so  swift  to  his  Home. 


68  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

The  Angel  of  Death  hovers  close  o'er  the  bed  ; 

The  shadow  falls  dark  on  the  face ; 
And  a  chill  and  a  hush  rests  on  everything  round, 

Each  man  standing  still  in  his  place. 

Yet  still  the  soul  lingers,  earth  bound,  as  it  seems, 
Till  a  voice  whispers  low,  "  The  Last  Prayer  ;  " 

And  those  words — those  grand  words  of  our  Mother,  The  Church- 
Rise  clearly  and  calm  on  the  air. 

It  seems  as  they  rise,  to  Faith's  eye,  thro'  the  space 

A  path  for  the  soul  they  have  cleft  j 
For  we  know,  ere  Amen's  last  vibration  is  done, 

With  the  body  alone  we  are  left. 

In  the  wards  of  Life's  Hospital,  thus  are  the  threads, 

Of  Death  and  of  Life  intertwined ; 
Grant,  Lord,  in  our  hour  of  need,  that  our  souls 

Such  vision  of  Angels  may  find  ! 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  69 


BBOWN. 

"Alas,  long-suffering  and  most  patient  God, 
Thou  need'st  be  surelier  God  to  bear  with  us, 
Than  even  to  have  made  us  !  " 

"  How  you  can  endure  that  man,  is  a  mystery 
to  me,"  said  M.,  to  me  one  morning,  as,  in  going 
through  the  wards,  I  paused  at  the  bedside  of  one 
of  the  men,  whose  unattractive,  even  repulsive 
countenance  fully  justified  the  feeling.  I  did  not 
answer  what  was  the  truth,  "  I  cannot  endure  him/' 
for  I  had  resolved  on  testing  to  the  uttermost,  my 
theory,  most  firmly  held,  that  there  is  some  good 
in  every  one — some  key  to  the  heart — some  avenue  " 
by  which  the  soul  may  be  reached — some  smoulder 
ing  spark  of  good  in  darkest  depths  of  evil ;  and 
more  than  this,  we  wrere  not  there  to  choose  inter 
esting  cases,  but  to  minister  to  all.  Truly  there 
was  little  room  here  for  the  romantic  interest  with 
which  we  are  charged  with  investing  our  men. 
Originally  of  very  low  origin,  bad  habits,  probably 
increased  by  the  exposure  of  camp  life,  had  sunk 
him  lower;  and  I  confess  to  a  feeling  of  shame  at 
the  unconquerable  disgust  with  which  I  approached 
him;  but  he  was  sick  and  suffering,  and  I  tried  to 


70  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

fix  my  mind  upon  the  fact,  rather  than  upon  the 
cause  which  had  produced  it. 

Several  months  of  visiting,  however,  proved  one 
point,  that  he  certainly  had  a  heart;  further  than 
this,  I  could  not  ascertain,  even  after  many  trials, 
until  one  morning  he  turned  to  me,  suddenly,  and 
said,  pointing  to  the  wall  opposite  his  bed,  "  We 
have  a  light  all  night;  I  can't  sleep,  and  I'm  all 
the  time  reading  that."  I  looked,  and  read  the 
text  in  large  letters,  "  There  is  more  joy  in  heaven, 
over  one  sinner  that  repenteth,"  &c.  "  Do  you 
think  there  could  ever  be  joy  over  me?"  The 
utter  depression  of  the  look,  the  hopelessness  of 
the  tone,  and  the  mournful  shake  of  the  head, 
were  touching  in  the  extreme. 

He  seemed  to  long  to  do  better,  and  promised 
earnestly  to  seek  for  strength  to  avoid  temptation. 
A  few  weeks  elapsed,  and  on  my  return,  the  an 
swer  to  "Where  is  Brown?"  was,  "In  the  guard 
house;  he  got  better,  got  a  pass,  and,  of  course, 
came  home  drunk." 

A  severe  illness  followed ;  this  occurred  again 
and  again ;  the  necessity  for  air  and  exercise  gained 
him  occasionally  a  pass  from  the  surgeons,  always 
followed  by  the  same  sad  result.  The  men  despised 
him,  treated  him  accordingly,  and  his  case  seemed 
hopeless.  One  day,  one  of  our  poor  men,  who  was 
in  a  dying  condition,  fancied  a  piece  of  fresh  shad 
— it  was  one  of  those  sick  longings,  which,  of  course, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  71 

we  were  anxious  to  gratify.  Permission  gii'mod  to 
send  for  it,  I  turned  to  one  of  the  men  at  my  side, 
and  said,  "  Will  you  go  to  the  market  and  get  it  for 
him?"  Brown,  who  was  standing  near,  sprang 
eagerly  forward,  "  Oh  !  do  let  me  go  for  you;  I 
won't  be  a  minute,  and  the  doctor  said  a  walk 
would  be  good  for  me."  The  sad  doubt  in  my 
mind  must  have  written  itself  upon  my  face,  for 
its  effect  w^as  reflected  by  the  deep  pain  and  wounded 
expression  in  his  own.  My  resolution  wTas  taken 
instantly,  and  I  resolved  to  risk  it.  Holding  the 
money  to  him,  I  said,  "  Take  it,  then,  and  come 
back  quickly."  The  blood  rushed  to  his  face,  and 
the  beaming  look  of  gratitude  made  me  sure  that 
this  was  the  best  mode  of  treating  him.  Men  are 
too  often  just  what  they  are  assumed  to  be;  treat 
them  as  men  of  honor,  such  they  will  be;  treat 
them  as  knaves,  such  also  they  will  be.  I  mean 
not  to  affirm  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  abstract 
truth  or  principle;  far  from  it;  but  I  do  mean  to 
say,  that  where  the  moral  sense  is  weak,  far  more 
is  gained  by  treating  men  as  though  we  trusted, 
than  as  though  we  doubted.  It  is  the  unconscious 
tribute  paid,  all  the  world  over,  to  honor  and  vir 
tue.  They  would  fain  be  or  appear  to  be,  all  that 
we  think  them;  and  who  can  tell  how  far  we  may 
aid  a  sinking  soul  by  the  kind  word  of  hopeful 
trust;  or,  on  the  other  hand,  by  assuming  a  man 


72  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

to  be  utterly  degraded,  help  to  make  him  become 
so,  in  reality  ? 

And  yet,  scarcely  had  Brown  left  my  sight,  ere 
the  doubt  returned.  He  had  been  doing  better 
lately.  I  had  thrown  him  into  temptation ;  would 
he  have  strength  to  avoid  it  ?  Visions  of  illness, 
disgrace,  suffering,  and  the  guard-house,  filled  my 
mind.  These  thoughts  were  not  dissipated  by  M.'s 
sudden  question, 

"  Who  did  you  send  for  that  fish?  How  long  he 
stays ! " 

With  something  of  a  pang  of  conscience,  although 
quite  aware  that  I  had  acted  from  the  best  motives, 
I  said,  courageously, 

"  I  sent  Brown ;  it  is  not  so  very  long." 

"  Brown  !  Oh  !  how  could  you  ?  You  know  what 
will  happen?" 

As  I  rely  upon  her  judgment  more  than  my  own, 
my  anxiety  is  not  relieved,  though  concealed.  The 
minutes  grow  to  hours,  and  still  no  tidings  of  him. 
Another  trial ;  the  wardmaster  appears. 

"  G—  -  wants  to  know  if  you've  got  his  fish  ? 
you  promised  to  send  at  once." 

"Not  yet,"  I  said,  "but  I  hope  I  shall  very 
soon." 

A  very  faint  hope,  it  must  be  confessed.  As  he 
left  the  ladies'  room,  I  heard  one  of  the  men  say 
to  him, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  73 

"  G '11  get  no  fish  to-day.  Do  you  know  who 

she  sent  ?  Brown,  if  you'll  believe  it." 

A  prolonged  whistle.     "  Didn't  she  know  ?  " 

"  She  might  have,  by  this  time,  one  would 
think.'" 

Heart  sick,  I  turned  away;  my  theory  of  trust 
henceforth  must  have  exceptions.  I  had  led  another 
into  sin,  and  he  must  suffer  for  my  fault.  Just  at 
this  instant  Brown  rushes  in,  flushed  and  heated,  it 
is  true,  but  with  exercise  alone, —  that  was  quite 
plain — and  handing  me  the  money,  pants  out, 

<;  I've  been  clean  to  the  wharf,  and  could'nt  get 
a  bit;  I  determined  you  should  have  it,  and  I've 
been  through  every  market  I  knowed  on,  but  not 
a  blessed  scrap  could  I  find." 

"  How  glad  I  am  !"  broke  involuntarily  from  my 
lips;  and  I  was  only  recalled  to  the  inappropriate- 
ness  of  the  reply,  by  his  look  of  puzzled  wonder, 
and  "  What  was  it  you  said,  miss  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  I  answered ;  "  thank  you  for  the 
trouble  you  have  taken;"  and  he  left  me,  much 
mystified  by  my  evident  delight  at  the  failure  of 
his  errand. 

The  truth  of  his  statement  was  verified  by  a 
lady,  who  (her  carriage  at  the  door)  offered,  to  see 
if  she  could  be  more  successful.  She  returned,  some 
time  afterwards,  bringing  some  other  fish,  and 
assuring  me  that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  pro- 
7 


74  NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

cure  any  shad  that  day,  at  any  price,  as  there  was 
none  in  the  market. 

"  They  tell  me,  that  I  should  not  love 

Where  I  cannot  esteem ; 
But  do  not  fear  them,  for  to  me 
False  wisdom  doth  it  seem. 

"  Nay, — rather  I  should  love  thee  more 

The  farther  thou  dost  rove  j 
For  what  Prayers  are  effectual, 
If  not  the  Prayers  of  Love  ? " 


NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  75 


DAELINGTON. 

"  I  PITY  our  sick  men,  to-day,"  thought  1,  as  I 
gladly  took  shelter  within  the  hospital  walls  from 
the  burning  summer  sun,  which  was  beating  with 
unusual  violence  upon  the  hot  brick  pavements  and 
dusty  streets.  The  city  in  summer,  and  "  Dante's 
Inferno,"  always  seem  to  me  synonymous  terms. 
It  is  on  days  like  these,  when  the  town  seems  so 
close  and  crowded,  the  heated  air  so  heavy  and 
impure,  that  I  long  to  have  the  hospitals  or  their 
occupants  all  moved  to  the  calm,  cool  country, 
where  the  poor  sufferer  may  be  beguiled  from  the 
thought  of  his  pain  by  the  sweet  sights  and  sounds 
ever  around  him;  that  blessed  blue,  which  no  town 
sky  can  ever  attain,  let  it  try  its  best,  broken  by 
fair,  floating  masses  of  white  clouds,  their  forms 
ever  varying,  yet  each  seeming  more  beautiful  than 
the  last;  the  glad,  grateful  green  of  woods  and 
dells,  which,  like  a  loved  presence,  ever  uncon 
sciously  soothes  and  satisfies;  the  soft,  springing 
wild  flowers,  wTith  their  sweet,  sunny  smile, — these 
for  the  eye ;  while  for  the  ear,  listen  to  the  cheerful 
chime  with  which  that  little  babbling  brook  plays 
its  accompaniment  in  "little  sharps  and  trebles" 


76  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

to  the  chorus  of  voices  overhead;  no  discord  there 
— not  one  false  note  to  jar  the  unstrung  nerve,  but 
all  pure,  perfect  harmony. 

Is  there  no  medicine  in  all  this  ?  Rather,  is  it 
not  worth,  for  purposes  of  cure,  all,  and  more  than 
all  that  the  whole  Materia  Medica  can  offer  ?  And 
yet  there  are  men  living  on  this  earth  who  tell 
you,  aye,  even  as  though  they  were  in  earnest  in 
the  assertion,  too,  that  they  do  not  love  the  country 
— they  prefer  a  city  life.  For  such,  I  can  only  hope 
that  retributive  justice  may  bestow  upon  them  a 
summer's  campaign  in  one  of  our  city  hospitals. 

"  Have  you  seen  our  new  lot  of  wounded  ?" 

"  No.  When  did  they  come  in  ?  Any  serious 
cases?" 

"  Only  a  few  days  ago.  Yes,  ma'am,  some  pretty 
bad  wounds;  worse  than  we've  had  yet — two  of 
them  can  hardly  live;  but  take  care  of  one  of 
them,  when  you  go  in ;  he's  as  cross  as  thunder, 
if  you  go  within  a  mile  of  his  bed." 

This  from  one  of  the  orderlies  of  the  first  ward, 
as  my  hand  was  upon  the  latch  of  the  door.  I 
confess  the  announcement  was  somewhat  alarming, 
as  we  could  then  be  but  a  few  rods  from  his  bed ; 
however,  "  forewarned,  forearmed."  I  enter,  and 
find  the  scene  little  different  from  usual,  save  that 
the  vacant  beds  are  all  filled,  and  a  few  more  have 
been  added  to  the  number,  as  they  evidently  stand 
much  closer  than  they  do  ordinarily.  I  pass  on  to 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  U 

the  familiar  faces,  and  after  a  greeting  with  them, 
my  attention  is  attracted  by  a  bright,  cheerful 
tune,  whistled  in  a  voice  of  uncommon  sweetness. 
It  comes  from  that  bed  where  that  poor  arm  is 
bandaged  from  shoulder  to  finger  tip,  and,  right 
glad  am  I  to  hear  it;  the  men  who  are  cheerful, 
are,  as  a  rule,  always  the  first  to  recover.  He 
stops  as  I  come  up. 

"I  am  glad  you  can  whistle;  it  shows  you  are 
not  suffering  so  much  as  I  feared,  when  I  saw  your 
bandages." 

He  smiles,  but  says  nothing;  and  I  notice,  as  I 
come  closer,  that  large  drops  of  perspiration  are 
standing  in  beads  upon  his  brow;  his  one  free 
hand  is  tightly  clenched,  and  a  nervous  tremor 
runs  over  his  whole  frame. 

One  of  my  friends  in  a  neighboring  bed  says, 

"Ah,  Miss ,  you  don't  know  Eobinson  yet,  he's 

a  new  fellow,  and  w^e  all  laugh  at  him  here ;  he  says 
when  the  pain's  just  so  bad  he  can't  bear  it  nohow, 
he  tries  to  whistle  with  all  his  might,  and  he  finds 
it  does  him  good." 

Whether  from  the  suspension  of  this  novel 
remedy  for  acute  suffering,  or  a  sudden  increase 
of  pain,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  as  I  turn  to  Robinson 
for  a  confirmation  of  this  singular  statement,  the 
large  tears  are  in  his  eyes,  and  roll  slowly  down 
his  cheeks.  He  tries  to  smile,  however,  and  says, 
"  Oh,  yes!  it  does  help  me  wonderfully;  it  kind 


78  NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

of  makes  me  forget  the  pain,  and  think  I'm  at 
home  again,  where  I'm  always  whistling.  Nothing 
like  keeping  up  a  good  heart.  It  don't  always  ache 
like  this — only  in  spells — it'll  stop  after  a  bit.  Never 
mind  me,  ma'am,  I'm  not  half  so  bad  as  poor  Dar 
lington  there." 

There  seemed  to  me  something  touching  in  the 
extreme,  in  this  earnest  effort  to  subdue  suffering 
by  whistling  up  the  bright  memories  of  home,  in 
the  midst  of  such  intense  physical  anguish,  and  in 
the  endeavor  to  treat  his  own  case  as  lightly  as 
possible.  Well  has  it  been  said,  "  Character  is  seen 
through  small  openings;"  and  as  he  appeared  in 
this  conversation,  such  did  we  find  him  always. 
Gentle,  unselfish,  and  bearing  his  terrible  suffering 
with  a  beautiful  patience,  ere  long  he  became  a 
general  favorite  throughout  the  w^hole  hospital ; 
and  during  the  tedious  months  of  close  and  con 
stant  nursing  which  his  case  required,  every  one 
seemed  glad  to  help  him  and  wait  upon  him  at  all 
times.  But  this  is  anticipating,  for  no  doubt  he 
will  appear  again,  as  for  a  long  time  he  was  one 
of  our  prime  objects  of  interest,  from  the  constant 
attention  as  to  diet  and  delicacies  which  his  case 
required. 

As  I  pass  on  from  bed  to  bed,  I  give  rather  a 
scrutinizing  glance,  in  hopes  of  just  seeing  the 
formidable  object  whom  I  had  been  warned  to 
avoid.  But  in  vain.  All  seem  quiet,  and  since  my 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  79 

presence  lias  stopped  the  whistling,  nothing  is 
heard  but  the  men  talking  in  an  undertone,  or  an 
occasional  low  moan  of  pain,  which  seems  to  come 
from  some  one  asleep  and  suffering.  Suddenly,  in 
my  tour,  I  pause  before  a  bed,  struck  by  the  ex 
pression  of  intense  anguish  on  a  sweet,  young  face, 
white  as  the  pillow  it  rests  upon;  his  fair  hair 
tossed  from  the  pale  brow,  which  is  painfully  con 
tracted,  and  his  long,  thin,  taper  fingers,  white  as 
the  face,  move  convulsively  as  he  sleeps.  He  is 
evidently  badly  wounded,  for  a  hoop  raises  the 
clothes  from  his  bandaged  limb.  Who  can  he  be  ? 
Evidently  those  hands,  even  allowing  for  illness 
and  loss  of  blood,  have  never  seen  rough  service, 
and  belong  to  some  one  of  a  higher  class  than  we 
usually  see  as  a  Private  here;  for  although  we 
proudly  acknowledge  that  some  of  the  best  blood 
of  the  country  is  now  in  the  ranks,  still  it  has  not, 
as  yet,  been  our  good  fortune  to  encounter  its 
presence  in  this  hospital.  There  is  a  sort  of  fasci 
nation  about  that  face,  and  I  stand  gazing  at  him 
and  wondering  over  him  till  Eichards,  one  of  our 
old  attaches,  comes  up. 

"Oh!  he's  asleep,  poor  fellow,  at  last;  that  ac 
counts  for  it;  the  boys  are  all  wondering  how  you 
got  so  close ;  he's  in  a  great  way,  when  he's  awake. 
He  couldn't  bear  you  that  near  without  screaming." 

"  Surely  this  can't  be  the  man  Foster  said  w^as 
'as  cross  as  thunder ?'"  said  I,  thinking  it  utterly 


80  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

impossible  that  here  was  indeed  the  dreaded  object 
I  had  been  seeking. 

"Well,  yes,  miss;  the  boys  call  him  cross,  but 
somehow  I  don't  think  he  means  to  be  cross;  only, 
you  see  he  suffers  so  with  that  mashed-up  limb, 
that  he's  afraid  they'll  touch  him  when  they  come 
near,  and  he  calls  out  sudden  like,  and  so  they  call 
him  cross ;  but  he's  as  grateful  as  can  be,  for  any 
little  thing  you  do  for  him/' 

"  Is  he  very  badly  wounded  ?" 

"  Oh  !  yes.  The  doctors  would  have  taken  his 
leg  right  off,  but  they  say  he's  too  weak  to  stand 
it;  you  never  saw  such  a  sight;  he  and  Eobinson, 
there,  are  an  awful  pair  to  look  at." 

"  Is  this  Darlington  ?  I  heard  Robinson  say  that 
Darlington  was  worse  than  he  was." 

"Yes,  ma'am;  the  doctor  says  he's  not  worse, 
only  they  take  it  different.  You  see,  poor  Tom 
here,  frets  all  the  time,  and  don't  give  himself  no 
chance ;  but  that  fellow  over  there'll  worry  through 
yet,  if  pluck  can  do  it." 

This  was  afterwards  confirmed  by  the  surgeon 
himself.  He  assured  me  that  Robinson's  wound 
had  appeared  quite  as  dangerous  —  indeed,  at  one 
time,  even  more  so ;  but  his  quiet,  placid  disposition 
aided  his  recovery  immensely ;  while  the  terribly 
nervous  temperament,  and  high  state  of  nervous 
irritability  of  poor  Darlington,  were  equally  against 
him. 


NOTES     OP     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  81 

"  I'm  glad  enough  he's  sleeping,"  added  Bichards, 
"  for  he's  been  here  for  three  days,  and  this  is  the 
first  time,  night  or  day,  that  I've  caught  him  with 
his  eyes  shut;  lots  of  anodyne,  too,  the  doctors 
give  him.  It's  worry,  worry,  worry  from  morning 
to  night  about  his  sister;  he  wants  so  to  see  her, 
and  says  if  she  were  only  here,  she  could  come 
near  his  bed  and  it  wouldn't  hurt  him." 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?  Why  don't  they  send 
for  her?  he  can't  live." 

"Away  off  in  Michigan;  and  he  won't  even  have 
her  told  that  he's  sick ;  he  says  wait  till  he's  better, 
and  then  he'll  write ;  but  he  won't  have  her  fright 
ened.  If  he  could  only  forget  her  for  a  little  while, 
it's  my  notion  he'd  do  better;  but  I  tell  him  none 
of  the  boys  here  make  half  the  fuss  after  their 
wives  that  he  does  after  his  sister.  Poor  boy  !  he's 
just  twenty-one  since  he  came  in  here,  and  I  rather 
guess  they  must  have  thought  a  sight  of  him  at 
home, —  at  least,  he  does  of  them, —  too  much  for 
his  own  good,  that's  certain;  this  terrible  fretting 
after  home,  when  they're  sick,  does  the  boys  a  lot 
of  harm." 

Knowing  that  Richards'  one  talent  was  garrulity, 
I  left  him  and  w^ent  to  our  room,  thinking  that 
perhaps  we  might  prepare  something  to  tempt 
poor  Darlington's  appetite;  for  the  surgeon  told 
us  it  was  vital  to  keep  up  his  strength,  and  yet  he 


82  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

could  scarcely  be  persuaded  to  touch  anything 
which  had  been  brought  him. 

As  I  well  knew,  from  the  state  they  described 
him  to  be  in,  that  the  sight  of  a  stranger  could 
not  be  agreeable  to  him,  we  sent  everything  we 
made  for  him  through  Richards,  who  constituted 
himself  his  body-guard  from  the  moment  of  his 
entering  the  hospital,  and  a  most  faithful  and 
untiring  nurse  he  proved.  Never  again  can  I  say 
that  garrulity  is  his  only  talent ;  he  developed  then 
and  there  a  gift  for  nursing  for  which  those  who 
best  loved  Darlington  can  never  be  too  grateful. 
Days  passed  on,  and  I  soon  found  that  (as  I  had 
supposed)  what  the  men  termed  "  crossness,"  was 
but  the  sad  querulousness  produced  by  suffering, 
and  the  state  of  which  I  have  spoken. 

While  Robinson  evidently  gained, —  though  his 
attacks  of  pain  were  still  marked  by  his  own 
peculiar  whistling,  which  we  constantly  heard  in 
the  ladies'  room,  and  always  knewT  how  to  interpret, 
— Darlington  was  as  evidently  losing;  and  all  hopes 
of  amputation  were  necessarily  abandoned.  I  could 
feel  nothing  but  the  most  intense  pity  for  him,  and 
longing  to  comfort  him  •  but  it  seemed  impossible. 
M.  said  to  me  one  day,  "  It  certainly  seems  best, 
from  what  we  see  and  hear  of  Darlington,  to  send, 
not  take,  his  nourishment  to  him ;  and  yet,  perhaps 
our  presence  might  be  more  welcome;  but  I  hesitate, 


NOTES     OP     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  83 

because  the  sight  of  any  one  coming  near  him 
seems  to  throw  him  into  such  a  nervous  state." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "any  one  but  Richards;  doesn't 
it  seem  a  strange  fancy?" 

And  so  we  went  on,  for  a  week  or  more  longer; 
for  our  interest  in  the  case  was  so  great,  that  even 
when  not  on  duty  at  the  hospital,  we  felt  that  we 
must  know  its  progress.  One  day  the  surgeon 
came  to  me  and  begged  me  to  try  to  cheer  up 
Darlington,  he  was  so  down-hearted,  would  taste 
no  food,  etc. ;  must  certainly  sink  unless  some 
change  could  be  made  in  his  feelings.  I  went  to 
his  bedside  at  once,  to  see  if  he  were  awake,  for 
much  of  the  time  he  was  kept  under  the  effect 
of  anodyne,  to  deaden  the  excessive  pain.  For 
many  a  long  day  did  that  look  of  deep,  profound 
wretchedness  haunt  me,  as  he  raised  his  soft,  clear 
blue  eyes  to  mine,  and  said,  in  the  most  earnest, 
pleading  tone,  "  Dear  lady,  please  to  go  away,  I 
am  so  very  wretched."  Any  one  who  had  ever 
suffered  realized  that  there  was  no  crossness  here ; 
physical  suffering,  acute  and  intense,  was  written 
in  every  line  of  his  face,  sounded  in  every  tone 
of  his  voice,  and  most  earnestly  did  1  long  to 
soothe  him. 

Without  answering,  I  drew  back,  and  laid  my 
cold  hands  on  his  burning  brow.  His  whole  ex 
pression  changed.  "  You  like  it,"  I  said ;  "  I  am 


84  NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

so  glad;  we  have  all  been  wishing  so  much  to  do 
something  to  comfort  you." 

A  sweet  smile,  more  touching  than  tears,  passed 
over  the  poor  white  face,  followed  the  next  moment 
by  the  painful  contraction  of  the  muscles  from 
suffering. 

"But  I  want  her!" 

"Ah!"  said  I,  "that  sister!  'No  one  can  take 
her  place ;  we  will  write,  and  she  can  soon  be 
here;  she  would  come  further  than  from  Michigan, 
I  am  sure,  to  sec  a  sick  brother  who  loves  her  as 
you  do." 

With  more  energy  than  I  had  ever  seen  in  him, 
he  lifted  his  head  from  the  pillow,  saying  eagerly, 
" Never,  never  write  to  her;  I  wouldn't  have  her 
see  me  so  for  all '; 

But  here,  either  from  the  effort,  or  from  a  sudden 
increase  of  pain,  faintness  came  on ;  strong  stimu 
lants  and  the  doctor's  presence  were  needed,  and 
I  left  him.  This,  I  trusted,  however,  might  be  a 
beginning. 

The  next  day,  when  I  came  to  him,  he  looked 
much  sunken,  and  seemed  altogether  lower  than 
I  had  yet  seen  him.  He  smiled,  however,  and 
tried  to  lift  his  hand,  and  point  to  his  head. 

"You  like  my  cold  hands,"  said  I,  as  I  once 
more  pressed  them  on  his  throbbing  temples;  "but 
perhaps  this  hot  day,  a  little  ice  would  be  better ; 
let  me  get  you  some." 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

He  said  something  which  I  could  not  catch ;  his 
voice  sounded  strangely  weak  and  broken,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  ask  him  to  repeat  it. 

"No!  oh  no!  I  said  your  hands  were  better 
than  any  ice.'7 

"  They  put  you  in  mind  of  that  sister,  is  that  it  ? 
Well,  shut  your  eyes  now,  and  try  to  fancy,  just 
for  a  little  while,  that  they  are  really  hers,  and 
that  she  is  standing  in  my  place,  where  I  know 
she  would  so  long  to  be." 

"  That  sister,"  he  said,  quietly  and  gently,  "whom 
I  shall  never  see  on  this  earth  again." 

This  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  so  spoken ; 
always  before  he  had  alluded  to  being  better — to 
getting  home — to  writing  himself  to  her;  but  now 
it  seemed  he  felt  and  realized  his  state. 

These  were  the  last  words  I  ever  heard  poor 
Darlington  speak,  for  I  never  saw  him  again.  My 
week  at  the  hospital  was  over;  I  was  obliged  to 
leave  home  for  a  short  time,  and  when  I  returned 
he  was  at  peace,  and  calmly  laid  to  rest. 

"  Out  of  the  darkness,  into  the  light  : 
No  more  sickness,  no  more  sighing; 
No  more  suffering,  self-denying; 
No  more  weakness,  no  more  pain  ; 
Never  a  weary  soul  again ; 
No  more  clouds,  and  no  more  night ; — 
Out  of  the  darkness  into  the  light." 

Although  I  was  not  present,  I  had  the  most 
touching  account  of  his  last  hours  from  one  who, 


86  NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LITE. 

in  truth,  acted  a  sister's  part, — watched  by  him, 
comforted,  consoled,  pointed  him  upward,  and 
received  his  latest  breath.  With  her  own  bands 
she  cut  off  a  lock  of  that  fair  hair  for  the  poor 
sister,  so  fondly  and  so  truly  loved  in  her  far-away 
home. 

She  told  me,  in  speaking  of  the  last  days  of  his 
life,  that  after  I  had  left,  and  as  death  drew  near, 
all  that  restlessness  and  irritability  passed  away, 
and  that  he  lay  calm  and  peaceful  as  a  little  child ; 
talked  to  her  quietly  —  sent  messages  to  his  home 
—  gave  particular  directions  as  to  his  funeral  — 
saying  that  it  would  satisfy  them  all  at  home,  to 
know  everything  had  been  carefully  attended  to, 
and  that  they  would  see  that  it  was  all  paid  for. 
Every  wish  was  carried  out ;  his  body  was  wrapped 
in  the  Flag ;  our  own  grand  Service  for  the  Dead 
said  over  him;  his  faithful  nurse,  "Uncle  Kichards," 
following  him  to  his  grave, —  in  one  of  the  lots 
generously  given  by  one  of  the  cemeteries  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  city.  It  was  a  great  comfort 
to  know  that  he  looked  at  Death  without  fear;  his 
mind  had  evidently  been  dwelling  much  and  deeply 
upon  the  subject,  during  many  of  those  long  hours 
when  we  had  supposed  him  to  be  in  a  stupor.  He 
expressed  a  sure  and  steadfast  trust  in  the  merits 
of  his  dear  Lord  and  Saviour,  and  rested  with  a 
quiet  confidence  upon  His  mercy.  He  passed  away 
calmly  and  gently,  and  we  have  perfect  trust  that 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL     LIFE.  87 

he  sleeps   in  Paradise.     Such  was  the   account  I 
received  on  my  return. 

"And,  comforted,  I  praised  the  grace 

Which  him  had  led  to  be 
An  early  seeker  of  That  Face 
Which  he  should  early  see." 

Perhaps  the  most  pathetic  part  of  the  whole 
thing,  was  to  see  the  deep,  real,  unostentatious 
grief  of  poor  Richards,  who  seemed  as  if  he  had 
lost  a  son.  This  was  a  strange  case  altogether. 
Richards  was  a  man  who  had  been  in  the  English 
army;  tall,  fine-looking,  with  a  military  air  and 
bearing,  which  had  impressed  me  much  when  he 
first  came  to  the  hospital;  but  I  soon  found  that 
his  habits  were  bad,  and  that  any  permission  to 
go  out  was  sure  to  be  followed  by  a  night  in  the 
guard-house,  and  days  in  bed.  And  yet  a  kinder 
heart  could  scarcely  be  found.  He  had  devoted 
himself  to  more  than  one  of  the  men,  and  watched 
them  night  after  night  till  their  death.  In  one 
instance,  when  one  man  whom  he  had  been  nursing 
was  to  be  taken  home,  here  in  the  city,  he  obtained 
permission  to  go  with  him  and  nurse  him,  sitting 
up  with  him  and  watching  him  till  his  death.  As 
at  such  times  he  always  remained  perfectly  sober, 
it  was  suggested  to  make  him  nurse,  (his  disease 
rendering  a  return  to  his  regiment  impossible,)  with 
the  hope  that  the  good  influence  over  him  which 
this  work  seemed  to  possess,  might  be  permanent; 


88  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

but  this  would  not  do;  he  could  not  be  trusted 
unless  he  had  a  special  interest  in  the  man  he  was 
nursing,  and  what  was  necessary  to  create  such 
interest  he  alone  knew.  "Whatever  the  qualities 
were,  Darlington  possessed  them  in  the  highest 
degree.  He  seemed  to  attract  him  from  the  first, 
and  the  love  was  warmly  returned.  Darlington 
thought  no  one  could  move  him,  no  one  could  feed 
him,  no  one  could  dress  his  wound  but  "  Uncle 
Richards,  dear  Uncle  Richards,"  as  he  called  him  ; 
and  often  have  I  wondered  at  the  tender  love  which 
seemed  to  exist  between  them.  Those  who  were 
present  told  me  that  it  was  truly  wonderful  to 
watch  Richards  all  through  that  last  day,  kneeling 
at  his  bedside,  praying  with  him,  repeating  text 
after  text  of  Scripture  or  hymns,  as  he  asked  for 
them.  One  of  the  last  things  Darlington  said  was, 
u  "Where  is  dear  Uncle  Richards?  I  want  to  put 
my  arms  round  his  neck,  and  thank  him  for  all  his 
goodness  and  kindness  to  me." 

And  yet  this  is  the  man  of  whom  some  one  said 
to  me,  only  a  day  or  two  since,  "  "Why  do  you  speak 
to  that  worthless  fellow  ?" 

One  day,  in  my  next  week  at  the  hospital,  Rich 
ards  came  to  me,  and  with  the  usual  salute,  which 

he  never  forgets,  said,  "  Miss ,  you  used  to  care 

for  poor  Tom,  would  you  let  me  tell  you  about 
him  ?  The  world  seems  so  lonely  to  me,  now  he's 
gone." 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  89 

I  gladly  assented,  and  seated  on  an  old  packing- 
box,  in  the  corner  of  the  hospital  entry,  I  listened 
to  his  story.  He  gave  me  every  detail  of  his  illness, 
most  of  them  already  familiar  to  me;  told,  with 
evident  pride,  how  the  poor  fellow  thought  nobody 
but  himself  could  do  anything  for  him. 

"  You  mind,  miss,  don't  you,  how  the  first  day 
you  saw  him,  I  told  you  he  didn't  mean  to  be 
cross,  though  the  boys  thought  him  so  ?  Well, 
he  told  me  before  he  died,  how  sorry  he  was  they 
had  thought  so,  but  they  could  never  know  what 
agony  it  was  to  him  to  see  them  come  near  him ; 
but  now  he  felt  that  he  ought  to  have  tried  to  bear 
it  all  more  patiently.  Poor  Tom  !  there's  not  been 
many  like  him  here,  and  there'll  never  be  any  like 
him  to  me,"  and  hard,  heavy  sobs  shook  his  whole 
frame. 

I  spoke  to  him  of  the  comfort  he  had  been  to 
him;  of  the  kind  way  in  which  he  had  watched 
him,  and  how  we  had  all  noticed  it;  and  won  a 
promise  from  him,  in  his  softened  state,  that  hence 
forward  he  would  try  so  to  live  as  to  meet  him 
hereafter ;  and  I  really  believe  that  at  the  time  he 
was  sincere;  but  habit  is  a  fearful  thing,  and  the 
struggle  against  a  sin  so  confirmed  more  fearful 
still. 

Some  days  afterwards,  he  came  to  me,  when 
there  were  others  present,  and  said: 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  her  to-day." 
8* 


90  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

My  thoughts  were  far  enough  from  Darlington 
at  the  moment,  and  I  answered, 
"From  whom?" 
"  From  her,  you  know  ! " 
"And  who  do  you  mean  by  'her?" 
"His  sister,  to  be  sure,"  he  said,  in  an  injured 
tone,    as   though   I   should   have   known   that,  at 
present,  there  was  but  one  subject  for  him. 
"Oh,  have  you?     What  does  she  say?" 
"  Not  now,  not  now,"  he  said,  looking  at  the 
others,   as   though  the  grief   were   too  fresh,  the 
subject  too  sacred,  to  be  mentioned  so  publicly; 
"  but  I  just  thought  you'd  like  to  know." 

At  a  quiet  moment,  the  next  day,  he  begged  me 
to  let  him  tell  me  what  she  had  written;  —  her 
warm,  earnest  thanks  to  him  for  all  his  love  and 
tenderness  to  her  darling  brother;  and  begging 
him  to  plant  some  flowTers  where  he  was  laid  to 
rest.  This  may  never  be  in  his  power,  but  there 
are  those  -who  will  never  forget  to  care  for  and 
cherish  the  low  grave  of  that  young  Private. 

MILITARY  HOSPITAL,  July,  1862. 

What  matters  it,  one  more,  or  less  ? 

A  Private  died  to-day; 
"  Bring  up  a  stretcher — bear  him  off — 

And  take  that  bed  away ; 
Put  39  into  his  place, 

It  is  more  airy  there ; 
And  give  his  knapsack,  and  those  clothes, 

Into  the  steward's  care." 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  91 

So,  it  is  over.     All  is  done  ! 

And,  ere  the  evening  guard, 
Few  thought  of  the  Dread  Presence 

That  day  within  the  ward. — 
Few  thought  of  the  young  Private, 

Whose  suffering,  pallid  brow 
Was  knit  by  torture,  not  by  time, — 

Unfurrow'd  by  Life's  plough. 

Few  thought  upon  the  agony 

In  that  far  western  home, 
Where  he,  their  hearts'  best  treasure, 

Was  never  more  to  come; 
For  Privates  have  both  hearts  and  homes, 

And  Privates,  too,  can  love; 
And  Privates'  prayers,  thank  God  for  that ! 

May  reach  the  Throne  above. 

We  know  thee  not,  sad  sister ! 

Whose  name  so  oft  he  breathed, 
Till  it  would  seem  that  thoughts  of  thee 

Round  his  whole  being  wreathed  ; 
But  by  the  love  he  bore  for  thee, 

We  catch  a  glimpse  of  thine; 
And,  by  the  bond  of  sisterhood, 

We  meet  beside  his  shrine. 

We  meet  to  tell  thee,  stricken  soul ! 

That  strangers  held  thy  place — 
Sisters  by  Nature's  right,  and  he, 

Brother,  by  right  of  race. 
While  pillow'd  tenderly  his  head, 

Cooled  was  his  burning  brain 
By  loving  hands ;  and  one  fair  curl, 

Severed  for  thee,  sweet  pain  ! 

If  comfort  be  not  mockery 

In  such  a  harrowing  hour, 
0,  find  it  in  his  cherishing, 

And  let  the  thought  have  power; 
Thy  brain  must  turn,  or  so  thou  deem'st, 

He,  needing  love  and  care, 
Knowing  'twas  granted,  thou  canst  kneel 

And  ask  for  strength  to  bear. 


92  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

0  men,  his  brothers,  bear  in  mind, 

For  all,  our  dear  Lord  died  ! 
Souls  own  but  one  Commission — 

Love  of  The  Crucified  ! 
Right  gallant  are  the  Officers — 

Men,  noble,  brave,  and  true ; 
But  when  you  breathe  a  Prayer  for  them, 

Say  one  for  Privates  too. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  93 


"LITTLE   COKNING." 

LET  no  one  imagine  that  hospital  life  is  all  gloom. 
Sickness  and  suffering  are,  of  course,  the  normal 
condition,  but  we  try  to  crowd  in  all  the  brightness 
we  can ;  games,  gayety.  and  gladness,  have  their 
place.  One  such  presence  as  that  of  "  Little  Corn 
ing  "  must  insure  some  sunshine.  How  can  I  de 
scribe  that  quaint,  droll,  merry  little  sergeant,  once 
seen,  never  to  be  forgotten  ? 

"  Little  Corning,"  we  always  called  him,  to  dis 
tinguish  him  from  our  tall  wardmaster  of  the  same 
name;  and  most  appropriate,  too,  did  it  seem  to 
his  little,  short,  squat  figure.  I  always  contended 
that  he  had  been  a  sailor,  from  the  roll  and  pitch 
in  his  gait,  and  a  certain  way  he  had  of  giving  a 
lurch  whenever  he  wanted  to  reach  anything  near 
him.  He  assured  me  most  positively  that  such 
was  not  the  case ;  but  I  still  continue  to  think 
that  he  must  have  been,  in  some  former  state  of 
existence,  if  not  in  this.  Many  men  have  been 
convicted  before  now  on  circumstantial  evidence,  ' 
why  should  not  he  be  also?  Perhaps  he  did  not 
choose  to  confess  the  fact  —  no  man  is  bound  to 
criminate  himself — therefore  I  see  no  <K)od  reason 


94  NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

for  giving  up  my  first  conviction,  and  many  for 
holding  it;  ergo,  I  repeat  that  I  think  he  had  been 
a  sailor. 

I  never  heard  a  merrier  laugh,  or  knew  a  happier 
nature.  He  seemed  to  possess  the  blessed  faculty 
of  shedding  sunshine  and  joy  all  around  him ;  many 
a  harsh  word  has  been  hushed,  many  an  incipient 
quarrel  checked,  by  his  odd,  dry  way  of  placing 
things  in  a  ludicrous  light,  arid  thus  changing 
churlishness  into  cheerfulness,  moroseness  into 
merriment.  Momus  certainly  presided  at  his  birth, 
touched  him  with  his  wand,  and  claimed  him  for 
his  own. 

He  had  the  best  reason  for  his  uniform  cheerful 
ness;  indeed,  the  only  one  which  can  ever  secure 
it.  His  Christianity  was  of  a  truly  healthy  order, 
and  certainly  brought  him  both  content  and  peace. 
During  his  residence  of  many  months  in  the  hos 
pital,  I  never  saw  a  frown  upon  his  face,  or  heard 
anything  but  a  bright,  joyous  laugh,  or  pleasant 
word  from  him.  Often,  in  my  rounds,  I  would 
come  upon  him,  unexpectedly,  in  some  obscure 
corner,  poring  over  his  Bible,  apparently  quite 
absorbed  in  it,  and  yet  always  ready  to  lay  it 
aside  when  he  could  make  himself  useful,  but 
returning  to  it  as  a  pleasure,  when  his  work  \vas 
accomplished. 

He  had  a  remarkably  fine  tenor  voice,  and  I  have 
often  seen  men  of  all  sorts  and  tastes  gathered 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  95 

round  him,  listening  by  the  hour  to  Methodist 
hymns,  for  the  sake,  we  must  suppose,  of  those 
uncommon  tones,  rather  than  of  the  words  which 
called  them  forth. 

One  morning  he  came  into  the  ladies'  room,  and 

informed  us,  with  much  delight,  that  Mr. had 

promised  to  ask  some  of  the  pupils  from  the  Blind 
Asylum  to  come  to  the  hospital  the  next  evening, 
to  give  a  concert,  begging  us  to  be  present. 

I  told  him  that,  for  one  of  us,  that  would  be  quite 
impossible ;  it  would  be  pleasant,  but  could  not  be 
arranged.  He  seemed  much  disappointed,  but  soon 
left  the  room,  and  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  when, 
an  hour  or  two  later,  he  burst  into  the  room,  quite 
radiant,  exclaiming,  "  It's  all  fixed,  we've  got  it  all 
fixed." 

"What's  all  fixed?"  said  I,  my  mind  intent  on 
some  refractory  oysters  which  refused  to  boil. 

"  The  concert,  to  be  sure.  Mr. has  arranged 

it  for  to-morrow  afternoon,  and  now  you'll  come." 

I  thanked  him,  and  gladly  accepted  for  us  both, 
promising  to  make  all  our  necessary  preparations 
for  the  supper  of  our  sick  men,  quite  early,  so  that 
we  might  be  ready  in  time.  At  the  appointed  hour, 
the  next  afternoon,  "Little  Corning"  presented 
himself. 

"  Come,  ladies,  come  quickly  !  the  boys  are  all  in 
the  dining-room ;  I've  brought  chairs  for  you,  and 
they're  quite  ready  to  begin." 


96  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

"Wait  a  minute;  not  just  yet;  sick  men  come 
first." 

"  Oh  !  please  now,  come,  won't  you  ?  Suppose 
just  for  once  that  the  boys  are  sick  on  the  field, 
and  never  mind  them  to-night." 

"  For  shame,  sergeant !  Such  counsel  from  you  ? 
We  cannot  believe  it.  Go  in,  and  we  will  follow 
you." 

But  although  music  is  his  passion,  and  he  is 
burning  to  be  there,  he  gallantly  prefers  to  wait, 
and  be  our  escort;  and  in  pity  for  him,  we  hurry 
as  much  as  possible;  and  now  we  are  done;  let 
us  go. 

There  are  our  chairs,  all  arranged  for  us.  What 
a  crowd!  At  least,  a  crowd  for  our  number  of 
well  men, — over  a  hundred,  certainly;  all  who  are 
fit  to  be  out  of  their  beds,  and  some  who,  we  very 
well  know,  are  not.  See  how  they  are  jammed 
together;  on  benches,  on  the  dining-table  itself, 
in  the  windows,  and  on  every  available  spot,  bat 
tered  and  bandaged,  wrappered  and  wrinkled,  suffer 
ing  and  smiling,  in  one  promiscuous  mass.  Look 
at  that  pale  boy,  sitting  on  the  corner  of  the  table 
on  our  right;  he  has  been  as  ill  as  possible  with 
typhoid  fever,  and  surely  can  never  sit  through  the 
concert  in  that  position.  Let  him  try  for  a  while, 
however ;  the  whole  scene  will  do  him  more  good, 
by  amusing  and  diverting  his  mind,  than  the  exer 
tion  can  do  him  harm.  Truly,  as  we  glance  around, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  97 

it  is  a  strange  scene.  Men  from  North,  East,  and 
West,  gathered  together  —  in  dress  and  undress 
uniform;  from  the  cavalry  jacket,  with  its  yellow 
facings,  to  dressing-gowns  and  even  shirt-sleeves; 
all  eagerly  arid  earnestly  bent  upon  one  idea ;  but 
even  as  they  gaze,  can  you  not  read  their  charac 
ters,  and  place  their  homes  ?  Each  State  has  its 
own  characteristics  so  strongly  marked,  that  I 
have  often  laughingly  promised  to  tell  each  man 
in  a  ward,  from  whence  he  came;  and  after  a  little 
practice,  one  seldom  makes  a  mistake, —  at  least 
never  wanders  far  from  the  truth ;  but  we  cannot 
stop  to  discuss  that  point  now.  as  the  songs  are 
beginning. 

But  stop  !  It  cannot  be.  Look,  M.,  look  !  It 
actually  is.  Our  naughty,  disobedient,  handsome 
Harry,  with  his  bandaged  limb  on  a  chair,  over 
there  by  the  window.  Only  this  morning  did  I 
hear  the  surgeon  give  orders  to  have  that  limb 
put  in  a  fracture-trough,  as  the  only  means  to 
preserve  perfect  stillness  for  it.  I  saw,  later,  that 
it  had  been  done;  and  now  look  —  everything  re 
moved,  and  here  he  is.  That  was  a  very  severe 
wound,  from  which  he  has  been  suffering  for  many 
months;  he  told  me  yesterday,  that,  in  all,  fifty 
pieces  of  bone  had  been  taken  out  of  his  leg;  the 
surgeons  rather  pride  themselves  on  having  pre 
vented  the  necessity  of  amputation  by  the  closest 
watching  and  care;  and  we  cannot  help  feeling 
0 


98  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

provoked  with  him  for  persisting  in  moving  about, 
when  perfect  rest  is  so  essential  to  his  cure.  And 
yet,  who  could  ever  be  angry  with  Harry,  for  any 
length  of  time  ?  He  has  a  way  of  his  own  of  win 
ning  us  over  to  his  side,  and  we  know  what  a  warm 
heart  beats  beneath  that  wilfulness;  but  arguments 
with  him  are  of  little  avail;  the  other  day,  in  reply 
to  my  earnest  remonstrances,  he  said : 

"  But,  Miss ,  my  leg  is  my  own,  and  if  I  like 

to  have  a  little  fun  now,  and  lose  it  afterwards,  will 
any  one  but  myself  suffer  ?  " 

"We  have  almost  given  him  up  as  incorrigible. 
Patriotic  songs  are  fast  following  each  other, — and 
certainly  the  applause  is  "  sui  generis/'  Crutches 
pounded  on  the  floor,  and  splints  hammered  on  the 
table,  with  an  energy  and  fervor  which  threaten 
their  own  destruction;  but  the  sightless  singers 
receive  it  all  apparently  with  the  greatest  satis 
faction,  deeming  that  the  greater  the  noise,  the 
greater  the  pleasure,  and  probably  such  is  the 
case. 

Listen.  What  is  that  tall  singer  saying  ?  He 
has  already  twice  repeated  it,  but  he  cannot  hope 
to  be  heard  in  this  confusion.  See  ! — he  is  trying 
again:  "I  want  you  all  to  be  quite  still  now,  and 
listen  to  this  song;  make  no  noise,  if  you  please." 

An  instant  hush,  and  eager  expectation  on  every 
face.  The  singer  begins  the  well-known  "  Laughing 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  99 

Chorus," — well-known  here,  but  evidently  a  perfect 
novelty  to  these  listeners. 

For  a  few  moments  there  is  an  effort  to  maintain 
quiet,  but  suddenly  their  pent-up  feelings  break 
forth,  and  peal  after  peal  of  heartiest  laughter 
rings  through  the  room.  In  vain  they  try  to  stop 
— a  moment's  pause,  and  the  singer's  voice  is  heard, 
seeming  only  to  give  the  key-note,  which  one  after 
another  takes  up,  till,  in  the  wild  storm  that  follows, 
they  are  entirely  unaware  that  he  has  come  to  a 
conclusion  —  that  it  is  all  over  and  done,  and  the 
singers  are  leaving.  Just  at  this  moment  my  eye 
is  caught  by  our  friend,  the  sergeant,  his  head 
resting  on  the  table,  his  face  almost  purple,  and 
his  whole  frame  literally  convulsed  with  laughter. 

"  Corning  !  Corning  !  stop  !  you  will  be  sick." 

But  in  vain;  that  laugh  must  be  laughed  out; 
and  he  cannot  even  recover  himself  sufficiently  to 
join  in  the  vote  of  thanks  which  the  men  are  offer 
ing  to  the  kind  friend  who  had  given  them  this 
enjoyment. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  arrived,  I  said  to  M. 
at  once,  "  How  is  Harry,  to-day?" 

u  Xot  in  the  least  the  worse,  by  his  own  account; 
but  I  hear  Little  Corning  is  in  bed — actually  made 
sick,  from  the  effects  of  the  concert." 

This  scarcely  surprised  me,  as  I  had  feared  it, 
knowing  that  he  was  far  from  strong. 

A  little  later  in  the  morning,  something  called 


100  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

me  over  to  the  ward  in  which  he  was,  and  as  I 
entered  I  heard  a  groan ;  to  my  surprise,  it  came 
from  our  little  friend,  who  was,  as  M.  had  heard,  in 
bed,  and  evidently  suffering. 

"  Why,  sergeant,"  said  I,  "  I  am  sorry  to  see  that 
the  concert  has  had  such  a  bad  effect." 

But  at  my  approach  the  groan  was  turned  into 
a  hearty  laugh,  though  it  was  quite  plain  that  the 
suffering  continued. 

"  Oh !  Miss  -  — ,  don't,  please  don't !  I  can't 
begin  again.  I  ache  all  over  in  each  separate 
muscle,  and  I've  lost  all  faith  in  you." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  begin  again;  but  what  do 
you  mean  by  having  '  lost  faith  in  me  ?' ' 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember,  you  always  said  a 
good  laugh  wras  the  best  medicine  ? — and  it's  come 
near  killing  me — oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !" 

';  That  bottle,  standing  on  the  table  at  your  side, 
Corning,  is  marked  to  be  taken  by  the  teaspoonful; 
perhaps,  if  you  were  to  empty  it  at  a  dose,  it  might 
have  the  same  effect.  I  never  recommended  such 
immoderate  laughter." 

"  Oh,  please  don't  speak  of  it.  It  brings  it  up 
so." 

The  remembrance  was  quite  too  much,  and  one 
fit  of  laughter  followed  another,  strangely  inter 
spersed  with  groans  of  pain,  from  the  soreness  of 
the  muscles.  That  merry  laugh  was  at  all  times 
most  contagious;  the  men  quickly  crowded  round, 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  101 

joining  in  it  without  asking  any  reason,  and  wo 
bade  fair  to  have  the  scene  of  yesterday  re-enacted. 

To  preserve  gravity  was  quite  impossible,  there 
was  something  so  irresistibly  ludicrous  in  the  whole 
affair,  but  I  felt  that  it  must  be  stopped. 

"  Corning  !  this  will  never  do;  you  must  control 
yourself;  you  will  be  ill ;  and  besides,  you  are  dis 
turbing  our  sick  men." 

"  I  think,  Miss  ,"  said  he,  with  a  violent 

effort  at  composure,  "  if  you  won't  take  it  hard,  if 
you'd  just  go  away;  if  I  didn't  see  you,  I  might 
get  quiet/' 

"  Certainly  I  will.  I  won't  '  take  it  hard/  at  all, 
and  I  will  come  back  when  you  are  quieter." 

"  Oh  !  please  no  !  Oh  !  don't  come  back ;  if  you 
do,  it'll  be  as  bad  as  ever  again." 

The  idea  was  quite  enough;  and  the  last  sound 
I  heard,  as  I  withdrew  my  mirth-inspiring  presence, 
was  another  of  those  clear,  ringing  laughs.  How 
I  longed  to  have  the  same  effect  upon  the  poor 
fellows  in  another  ward,  where  I  had  vainly  racked 
my  brain  for  many  days,  to  call  up  even  a  faint 
smile  on  their  depressed  and  weary  faces.  I  sent 
everything  over  to  the  sergeant's  ward  through 
the  day,  not  risking  my  dangerous  presence  there; 
and  even  at  night  judged  it  better  not  to  go  over 
to  say  goodbye,  although  it  was  Saturday  night, 
and  my  duties  for  the  week  were  over. 

When  I  came  again,  my  merry  friend  had  been 


102  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

returned  to  his  regiment,  and  that  had  been  our 
final  interview.  I  have  often  wondered  since,  how 
(if  ever)  we  should  meet  again  ?  Whether  that 
last  laughing  parting  will  linger  in  his  mind,  or 
whether  its  memory  shall  have  been  crushed  out 
by  the  stern  realities  of  war? 

NOTE. — The  problem  has  been  solved.  To  our  amazement,  the 
week  after  the  Gettysburg  fight,  Little  Corning  walked  into  the 
ladies'  room  at  the  hospital,  fresh  from  the  field — or  rather,  anything 
but  fresh.  Tattered  and  battered,  soiled  and  moiled ;  his  head  tied 
up,  nnd  looking  very  much,  on  the  whole,  as  though  he  had  been  in 
an  Irish  row.  He  had  been  wounded  in  the  temple  by  a  shell;  but 
not  dangerously,  and  had  hastened  to  "  his  old  home,"  as  he  called 
it,  as  soon  as  he  arrived,  although  to  his  great  regret,  as  well  as  ours, 
he  had  been  placed  in  another  hospital. 

We  welcomed  him  warmly,  and  were  too  full  of  his  danger  and 
our  own  —  his  escape  and  our  own,  to  revert  to  past  days  for  more 
than  a  word.  He  had  not  lost  his  old  bright  spirit,  and  when  we  told 
him  how  pleasant  it  was  to  have  our  old  friends  for  our  defenders,  his 
eye  sparkled,  and  he  said,  "Yes;  I  felt  all  the  time  I  was  fighting 
for  you."  And  thus  we  met  again. 


"  No  stream  from  its  source 
Flows  seaward,  how  lonely  soever  its  course, 
But  what  some  land  is  gladdened.     No  star  ever  rose 
And  set,  without  influence  somewhere.     Who  knows 
What  earth  needs  from  earth's  lowest  creature  ?     No  life 
Can  be  pure  in  its  purpose,  and  strong  in  its  strife, 
And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  stronger  thereby : 
The  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect  on  high; 
The  Army  of  Martyrs  who  stand  by  the  throne, 
And  gaze  into  The  Face  that  makes  glorious  their  own, 
Know  this  surely  at  last.     Honest  love,  honest  sorrow ; 
Honest  work  for  the  day,  honest  hope  for  the  morrow, — 
Are  these  worth  nothing  more  than  the  hand  they  make  weary  ? 
The  heart  they  have  saddened,  the  life  they  leave  dreary  ? 
Hush !  the  sevenfold  Heavens  to  the  voice  of  the  Spirit 
Echo,  '  He  that  o'ercometh,  shall  all  things  inherit.' " 


(104) 


NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  105 


GAVIN. 

How  sadly  and  how  strangely  we  misjudge  our 
brother!  We  walk  daily  by  his  side,  and  receive 
the  cold  exterior  as  a  type  of  the  inner  life,  forget 
ting  that  hardness,  sternness,  and  repelling  reserve, 
may  be  only  the  crust  of  the  crater,  hiding  the 
lava  beneath.  How  comes  it  that,  when,  in  our 
own  case,  we  are  all  so  well  aware  that, 

"  Not  ev'n  the  tenderest  heart,  and  next,  our-  own, 
Knows  half  the  reasons  why  we  smile  or  sigh;" 

yet,  we  will  not  believe  in  the  secret  sufferings  of 
others?  Instead  of  seeking  to  win  the  unstrung 

— -j 

instrument  back  to  harmony,  by  the  tender  touch 
of  loving  sympathy,  we  mete  out  precisely  the 
measure  meted  to  us ;  oppose  coldness  to  coldness, 
hardness  to  hardness,  reserve  to  reserve,  and  thus 
a  wall  is  built  up  between  us,  and  all  hope  of  influ 
ence  is  gone.  We  need  more  trust  in,  and  more 
charity  for,  each  other.  Woe  to  the  sick  soul, 
suffering  and  sorrowful,  its  sickness  only  shown 
by  the  petulant  word,  the  rude  retort,  the  outward 
expression  of  inward  wretchedness, — woe  to  such 
a  soul,  I  say,  were  it  left  only  to  man's  tender 
mercies.  Most  mercifully  it  is  not.  Infinite  Love 


106  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

breathes  balm  upon  it.  Infinite  Compassion  soothes 
it.  When  shall  we  even  begin  to  imitate  the  one,  or 
strive  to  attain  to  the  other  ? 

These  thoughts  were  called  up  by  a  keen  sense 
of  the  injustice  of  my  own  judgment,  in  a  special 
case,  only  discovered  this  very  day. 

A  sunny,  bright  afternoon.  Our  men  are  all 
improving,  none  dangerously  ill;  the  most  of  them 
have  sought  the  yard,  to  walk,  to  smoke,  to  sing, 
or  play  at  such  games  as  cannot  be  carried  on 
in-doors.  Everything  has  a  more  cheerful  aspect 
than  usual.  If  melancholy  and  depression  are 
infectious,  so,  happily,  are  mirth  and  gayety ;  and  as 
the  chorus  of  one  of  our  favorite  army  songs  rings 
out  on  the  air,  I  find  myself  joining  in  it,  as  I 
spring  up  the  stairs,  two  at  a  time,  on  an  errand. 
Scarcely  noticing  where  I  am  going,  I  suddenly 
stumble  upon  something  on  the  stair. 

"Why,  Gavin,  can  that  be  you?" 

Dashed  upon  the  floor,  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands,  his  whole  attitude  denoting  utter  despair, 
he  does  not  even  move  or  notice  my  question. 

While  I  am  standing,  looking  and  wondering,  let 
me  give  you  a  little  knowledge  of  him,  as  he  ap 
pears  in  the  wards.  Some  time  since  I  was  much 
struck,  on  coming  to  the  hospital,  by  the  soldier 
acting  as  guard  at  the  door.  His  erect  and  military 
bearing,  well-made  figure,  and  broad  chest,  with 
the  certain  "je  ne  sais  quoi"  of  a  gentleman, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  107 

rather   impressed   me,    as   he   lifted   his    cap   and 
saluted  as  I  approached. 

"  Who  is  our  gentlemanly  guard  to-day?"  said  I 
to  M.,  on  entering  our  room. 

"  Just  come ;  a  fine-looking  fellow,  isn't  he  ?  I 
have  just  been  finding  out  his  history.  He  is  ter 
ribly  reserved,  but  I  have  made  out  that  he  is  a 
Northerner  who  went  to  the  South  to  settle;  was 
impressed,  sorely  against  his  will,  at  the  time  of 
the  breaking  out  of  the  war;  was  taken  ill,  and 
allowed,  as  he  was  useless,  to  come  here  to  see  his 
mother,  who  was  also  ill;  he,  of  course,  never 
returned,  although  he  had  letters  from  his  Colonel, 
which  he  showed,  first  offering  him  a  Lieutenancy, 
and  then  a  Captaincy ;  but  he  prefers,  he  says,  to 
be  a  Private  in  our  o\yn  army,  to  the  highest 
position  in  theirs.77 

"Well?"  said  I,  as  she  paused. 

"  That's  all;  he  told  me  nothing  more;  but  that 
as  soon  as  he  came  North  he  enlisted,  was  taken 
sick  in  camp,  and  sent  here." 

"  His  history,  then,  is  still  to  hear,"  I  said;  "he 
hasn't  accounted  for  his  interesting  melancholy,  or 
the  mournful  expression  of  those  large,  dark  eyes, 
which  strike  you  the  moment  you  look  at  him; 
and  yet  there  is  something  about  him — a  sort  of 
dark  look — which  I  don't  altogether  fancy." 

"  Oh  !  you  want  to  make  up  a  romantic  story  for 
him,  do  you  ?  Well,  find  it  out,  if  you  can ;  I  have 


108  NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

told  you  all  that  he  would  tell  me,  and  yet,  1  con 
fess  I  was  struck  with  his  language;  it  was  certainly 
much  above  that  of  most  of  our  men  here." 

Weeks  passed  by,  and  as  Gavin  was  not  sick 
enough  to  need  care,  we  had  little  to  do  with  him, 
and  that  little  did  not  encourage  us  to  go  further. 
Often  a  wrord  of  greeting,  in  passing,  will  call  forth 
something  more,  but  his  cold,  forbidding  manner, 
joined  to  a  certain  distant  politeness,  so  repelled 
me,  that  I  resolved  to  let  him  alone;  and  yet  I 
felt  sorry  for  him,  for  I  could  not  fail  to  notice  his 
unpopularity  among  the  men.  He  walked  alone, 
mentally  and  physically,  and  seemed  to  desire  no 
intercourse  with  any  one. 

One  morning  I  found  him  gloomily  seated  in  a 
corner  of  the  ward,  apparently  unconscious  of 
everything  around  him. 

"  What  a  terribly  long  face,"  said  I,  trying  to 
rally  him;  "you  will  never  get  well  till  you  learn 
to  laugh." 

"To  laugh!"  said  he,  with  intense  bitterness; 
"  then  I  am  invalided  for  life.  Little  enough  is 
there  on  earth  to  laugh  about,  I  think;"  and  rising 
hastily,  he  brushed  past  me,  and  left  the  ward. 

"  I  don't  like  that  Gavin,"  I  said  to  M.,  "  there's 
something  so  dark  and  hard  about  him;  I  can't 
make  him  out." 

"Ah  !  no  story  yet  ?  I  thought  he  was  to  have 
a  romantic  story,  with  his  interesting  dark  eyes." 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  109 

i:  Story !  He  never  opens  his  lips  to  any  one ; 
and  unless  he  shall  need  something,  I  have  almost 
determined  never  to  open  mine  to  him  again." 

Such  was  the  man  whom  I  have  left  all  this  time 
lying  upon  the  staircase.  Knowing  as  I  did  that 
whatever  his  faults  might  be,  intemperance  was 
not  one  of  them,  I  once  more  address  him;  he 
evidently  has  not  heard  me  before,  for,  starting 
up  hastily,  and  forgetting  his  usual  politeness,  he 
exclaims,  petulantly,  "  I  thought  I  could  be  to 
myself  here,  at  least." 

"  So  you  can,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned;  I  merely 
came  up  stairs  on  an  errand,  without  an  idea  that 
you  were  here ;  but  another  time  when  you  wish 
to  secure  perfect  privacy,  I  should  scarcely  advise 
you  to  choose  a  staircase." 

"  It  matters  little,"  said  he,  sitting  down  on  the 
stairs,  resting  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  burying 
his  face  in  his  hands,  "  one  part  of  the  world  or 
another;  it's  all  the  same;  dark  enough  to  wish 
to  be  well  out  of  it." 

"  Gavin,"  said  I,  sitting  down  on  the  stair  beside 
him,  "  do  you  remember  that  you  told  me  how 
terribly  your  back  ached  from  carrying  your  knap 
sack  and  blanket  on  that  long  march  ?" 

A  dull,  uninterested  assent. 

"What  would  have  been  most  welcome,  when 
the  pain  became  intolerable?" 
10 


110  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

"  To  unload,  of  course;"  his  head  still  buried  in 
his  hands. 

"At  times,  in  the  long  march  of  life,  I  have  borne 
a  heavy,  moral  knapsack;  and  when  the  pain  from 
its  weight  became  intolerable,  no  words  can  tell  the 
relief  of  unloading,  and  sharing  the  burden  with 
some  loving  heart,  with  whom  it  was  as  safe  and 
as  sacred  as  with  myself.  Your  heart,  just  now,  is 
aching  worse  than  ever  did  your  back;  might  it 
not  ease  it  to  try  the  experiment?" 

He  raised  his  head  quickly;  fire  enough  in  those 
eyes  then. 

"Ease  it!"  he  said;  "doesn't  it  feel  every  day 
and  every  hour  that  it  must  burst,  unless  I  tell 
what  I  am  suffering?  I  walk  among  the  men 
here,  and  they  pass  me  as  cold  and  stiff,  when, 
God  knows,  I'm  on  fire  inside ;  I'm  burning  up, 
burning  up,  here,"  added  he,  pressing  his  hand  on 
his  brain. 

This  was  enough.  The  buckles  were  unstrapped, 
the  burden  would  follow. 

The  first  thing  that  roused  us  was  the  tap  of  the 
drum  for  supper.  The  long  hours  of  that  sunny 
summer's  afternoon  had  slipped  by,  as  I  listened 
to  a  story,  which,  in  Yictor  Hugo's  hands,  would 
be  worked  into  a  romance  quite  as  thrilling  as 
anything  he  has  ever  penned;  whilst  in  mine  it 
must  remain  forever, —  a  deposit  sacred  as  the 
grave.  My  object  was  accomplished.  With  a 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  Ill 

smile,  he  rose  —  the  first  I  had  ever  seen  on  his 
faee — saying,  "  You  were  right  about  that  moral 
knapsack;  my  heart  feels  lighter  than  I  ever 
thought  it  could  again/' 

"And  you  will  do  as  I  say?" 

"  I  will  try." 

"And  you  will  try  too,  won't  you,  to  remember 
my  first  advice,  some  time  since,  and  learn  to  laugh 
a  little  more  ? " 

"Indeed  I  will;  and  it  seems  as  if  it  might  be 
possible  now,  but  let  me  tell  you " 

"Nothing  more  to-day,"  said  I,  laughing;  "I 
must  refuse  any  further  confidence;"  and  running 
down  stairs  to  our  room,  I  was  complimented  upon 
the  promptitude  with  which  I  performed  an  errand. 
No  matter,  thought  I ; — if  one  sad  soul  has  found 
comfort  in  pouring  out  the  bitter  sorrows  of  a  life, 
the  hours  have  not  rolled  by  in  vain.  Are  we  not 
all  responsible  for  each  day,  nay,  for  each  hour,  as 
it  passes  ?  Not  alone  for  the  right  use  of  time  in 
improving  our  own  souls,  but  for  the  manner  ill 
which  we  act  upon  others.  Influence  !  The  lan 
guage  scarcely  holds  a  more  solemn  word,— the 
mind  scarcely  receives  a  more  fearful  thought  ! 
How  has  this  power  been  exerted  ?  We  all  possess 
it  in  greater  or  less  degree.  We  all  shall  have  to 
render  an  account  for  the  use  or  misuse  of  such  a 
terrible  talent. 


112  NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

"The  deeds  we  do,  the  words  we  say, 
Into  still  air  they  seem  to  fleet ; 
We  count  them  ever  past, 
But  they  shall  last;— 
In  the  dread  judgment,  they 
And  we  shall  meet ! " 

Time  was,  when,  to  my  mind,  it  seemed  only 
humility  to  believe  that  such  a  speck  in  God's 
creation  —  such  an  atom,  great  in  no  one  thing, 
mentally,  morally,  or  physically — must  be  without 
power  for  good  or  evil  —  without  influence  upon 
any  single  soul.  It  will  not  do.  Humility  is 
doubtless  a  great  gift ;  Truth  is  a  greater.  ~No 
mortal  being  into  whom  God  has  breathed  the 
breath  of  life,  can  live  upon  this  earth  and  not 
act  upon  his  fellow  mortals  in  some  manner.  We 
cannot  be  merely  negative;  we  are,  we  must  be 
positive. 

"  Where  we  disavow 
Being  keeper  to  our  brother,  we're  his  Cain." 

A  word,  a  look,  aye,  even  a  tone  may  be  the 
making  or  undoing  of  a  soul.  My  brother  !  remem 
ber  that  to  those  amongst  whom  you  are  thrown, 
you  must  be,  morally,  either  air  or  water.  Air,  to 
fan  the  smouldering  spark  of  good,  till  its  white 
flame  mounts  higher  and  higher,  encircling  your 
head  with  a  halo  of  glory ;  or  water,  to  quench 
that  same  spark,  which,  in  dying,  will  envelop 
you  in  the  blackness  of  darkness  for  ever  and 
ever. 


NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  113 


HASTY  JUDGMENT. 

How  little,  in  this  world  of  ours, 
One  heart  doth  know  another; 

Man  treads  alone  the  path  of  life, 
A  stranger  to  his  brother. 

The  heart  hath  its  own  depths — it  strives 

With  sacred  awe  to  hide, 
E'en  from  those  round  us,  journeying  on 

Unconscious  at  our  side. 

Recesses,  which,  to  the  world's  gaze, 
Are  dark  and  barred  from  view; 

Hence  comes  it  that  the  public  eye 
So  rarely  reads  us  true. 

And  yet  a  light  does  reach  those  depths — 

Those  Portals  have  a  key; 
They're  brightened  by  Love's  silver  beams, 

Unlocked  by  Sympathy. 

Those  ashes,  which,  to  common  view, 

Cold,  dark,  and  lifeless  seem, 
When  stirr'd  by  Sympathy's  soft  touch, 

Send  forth  a  brilliant  gleam. 

Then  pause,  nor  judge  thy  fellow  man ; 

Remember  it  may  be, 
The  heart  is  beating  underneath, 

But  thou  dost  lack  the  key. 


10* 


114  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 


CHEISTMAS    AT    THE   U.  S.  A. 
HOSPITAL,  - 

I  PROMISED,  when  we  parted,  dear  C.,  that  you 
should  have  some  account  of  our  Christmas  doings; 
but  the  busy  days  have  slipped  by,  till  now,  without 
my  finding  a  moment  to  redeem  that  promise. 

You  know  how  w^e  are  all  occupied  at  that  time; 
but  no  matter  how  much  there  is  to  be  done,  in 
these  days  "private  interests"  have  a  different 
signification,  and  demand  attention. 

The  morning  of  Christmas  Eve,  therefore,  found 

and  myself  on  our  way  to  the  hospital.  With 

that  ready  interest  which,  with  her,  always  rises  to 
meet  the  emergency,  even  at  the  busiest  moments, 
she  has  offered  to  go  with  me  and  help  us  in  our 
work;  and  you  know  how  it  doubles  my  pleasure 
for  her  to  do  so.  Several  of  the  ladies  have  agreed 

O 

to  meet  here  to-day ;  some  for  the  purpose  of 
superintending  the  cooking  for  the  Christmas  din 
ner,  plum-puddings,  etc. ;  others  to  make  and  put 
up  the  greens  for  the  Christmas  decoration ;  we,  as 
you  may  suppose,  are  among  the  latter  class.  Our 
quiet  ladies'  room  is  quite  a  scene  of  bustle  this 
morning ;  the  ladies  in  charge  for  the  week  carry- 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  115 

ing  on,  or  attempting  to  carry  on,  their  usual 
duties;  others  flying  in  and  out  for  various  pur 
poses  ;  green  wreaths  strewing  the  floor,  and  vain 
attempts  are  being  made  to  twist  them  into  some 
available  shape. 

This  confusion  will  never  do.  Nothing  can  be 
accomplished  in  this  way.  Let  us  go  into  one  of 
the  wrards,  where  it  is  quiet;  and  soon  we  find 
ourselves  seated  by  the  stove,  endeavoring  to  form 
a  green  sentence  by  covering  the  letters  with  moss 
and  ground  pine  ;  they  have  been  nicely  cut  for  us 
by  the  genius  of  the  hospital,  and  we  are  pressing 
into  our  service  all  the  men  who  can  sew,  or  rather, 
all  who  say  that  they  can,  wrhich  is  sometimes  quite 
a  different  affair. 

But  before  we  begin,  we  must  go  and  speak  to 
poor  James,  who  has  been  so  ill;  he  is  actually 
sitting  up ;  but  how  pale  and  weak  he  looks,  and 
what  a  languid  expression,  as  he  smiles  !  He  tells 
us  that  he  hopes  to  be  in  the  dining-room  to-morrow, 
and  in  a  fewT  days  to  start  for  home.  Ah  !  James, 
that  photograph  so  carefully  concealed  beneath 
your  pillow,  peeps  out  occasionally,  and  wre  all 
know  that  you  left  a  two  weeks'  bride  to  serve 
your  country. 

He  has  been  suffering  from  fever ;  but  worse 
than  this,  he  is  subject  to  epileptic  fits,  which  he 
had  hoped  were  cured;  but  hard  life  and  exposure 
have  brought  them  back,  and  he  has  had  several 


116  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

very  severe  attacks  since  he  has  been  here.  His 
gentle,  winning  manner  has  made  him  a  general 
favorite,  and  we  arc  all  glad  to  see  him  better.  He 
begs  to  have  his  chair  moved  up  to  our  circle,  where 
he  can,  at  least,  look  on,  while  we  work;  and  he  is 
always  sure  to  find  plenty  of  ready  and  willing 
hands  to  do  any  service  that  he  needs. 

But  our  work  must  not  stand  still;  and  lo  !  at 
this  crisis,  we  find  ourselves  without  implements. 
We  had  supposed  we  were  simply  to  twine  and 
festoon  wreaths,  instead  of  which,  or  rather,  in 
addition,  we  find  the  green  must  be  sewed  on  to 
those  thick  book-binders'  board  letters.  Oh  !  why 
were  they  not  pasteboard,  and  why  have  we  no 
thimbles  ?  But  these  are  not  the  first  wounds  we 
have  received  in  the  service  of  our  country;  so,  as 
we  have  a  few  needles,  never  mind,  let  us  do  our 
best;  and,  as  our  number  is  increasing, — one  after 
another  coming  up  "  to  see  the  fun,"  and  being  at 
once  enlisted  in  our  service, —  no  doubt  we  shall 
accomplish  the  task. 

The  men,  who  are  always  ready  to  help  us,  are 
specially  so  to-day,  when  the  bright  spirit  of  the 
season  seems  to  communicate  itself  to  all. 

Is  there  not  something  singularly  striking  in 
thus  preparing  to  hail  the  birth  of  the  Prince  of 
Peace  in  the  midst  of  an  army  hospital,  where  we 
are  surrounded  by  all  the  dreadful  effects  of  war  ? 
Surely  in  no  other  spot,  save  the  field  of  battle 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  117 

itself,  could  we  as  fully  appreciate  the  priceless 
blessings  contained  in  that  Title. 

Those  who  cannot  sew,  aid  us  in  other  ways. 
One  of  our  lieutenants  prefers  to  collect  the  little 
bunches  of  green,  and  hand  them  to  me  to  sew  on, 
rather  than  try  his  hand  at  sewing  himself;  as  he 
is  busily  engaged  at  this  work,  one  of  the  men,  in 
passing,  laughingly  rallies  him  on  his  occupation. 

"  Pretty  work  for  a  commissioned  officer!" 

;'  To  oblige  a  lady,  Horstman,  is  never  beneath 

any  officer,  no  matter  what  his  rank.  General 

himself  will  tell  you  that !" 

This  from  me, —  a  word  by  the  way, —  very  sure 
that  no  matter  what  assertion  I  cover  by  that  name, 
it  will  be  received  by  him  for  truth.  There  is  some 
thing  very  beautiful  to  me  in  the  pride  and  heart 
felt  love  which  the  men  so  often  express  for  their 
generals.  It  is  this  feeling  of  trust  and  confidence 
in  their  leaders  which  is  one  of  the  most  important 
elements  of  success,  and  upon  which  victory  itself 
often  depends. 

Ah  !  here  comes  M.  We  have  been  wondering 
where  she  could  be,  and  why  she  did  not  appear. 
Her  hands  full,  as  usual,  and  stopping  for  a  Christ 
mas  Eve  greeting  with  each  man,  as  she  comes 
along.  And  see  who  she  has  brought  in  her  train ! 
Men  and  boys  laden  with  green  wreaths;  more 
still?  we  shall  have  quite  a  bower;  and  look  at 
that  great  tree ;  where  can  that  have  come  from, 


118  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

and  what  can  she  mean  it  for?  It  has  been  given 
to  her,  she  says,  and  we  may  use  it  exactly  as  we 
like  best ;  therefore  -  -  suggests  that  it  shall  be 
a  Christmas  tree  for  James,  who  has  just  announced 
his  intention  to  hang  up  his  stocking,  and  she  pro 
poses  this  in  its  place.  We  all  take  it  up  as  an 
excellent  joke,  and  declare  he  shall  have  it.  He 
seems  to  enjoy  it  too,  and  smiles  with  that  sweet 
smile,  which  I  am  sure  first  won  his  young  wife's 
heart,  though  I  should  be  sorry  that  she  saw  it  now, 
with  that  weak,  languid  eye  and  pallid  brow ;  we 
must  put  a  little  color  into  those  cheeks,  before  we 
send  him  home.  Having  nothing  else  to  do,  this 

busiest  day  of  the  whole  year,  promises  to 

supply  all  the  needful,  for  dressing  the  tree,  when 
she  returns  from  dinner,  says  goodbye,  and  leaves 
the  men  all  in  high  spirits. 

The  work  goes  briskly  on ;  some  of  the  men 
have  got  tired  and  left  us,  but  most  of  them  are 
faithful  still,  especially  my  friend  there, — that  tall 
Yankee,  with  his  crutches  laid  at  his  side.  He  is 
a  New  Hampshire  man;  and,  with  true  Yankee 
perseverance,  has  never  moved  since  he  concluded 
to  try  his  hand  at  "  greening  letters/'  as  he  calls 
it.  He  "  calculated  he  could  do  that  as  well  as 
anything  else,  though  he  had  never  tried  before," 
and  wonderfully  has  he  succeeded.  Many  a  merry 
laugh  rings  out,  as  the  different  ones  hold  up  the 
results  of  their  work  to  know  if  we  have  an  idea 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  119 

"  what  that  letter  is  intended  for?"  and  truly  we 
often  find  some  difficulty  in  recognizing  them,  but 
trust  their  position  in  the  sentence  may  be  more 
suggestive  than  when  they  stand  alone.  It  is  tough 
work,  and  I  am  almost  inclined  to  agree  with  one 
of  the  men,  who,  as  he  puts  the  last  stitch  to  his 
work,  starts  up,  exclaiming  : 

"  Well,  any  man  that  can  do  that  work,  is  fit  to 
go  back  to  his  regiment;  I've  done  nothing  like  it 
since  I  left  the  Peninsula." 

As  we  are  hurrying  on,  to  meet  the  constant 
demands  from  the  dining-room,  "  Can't  you  give 
us  an  E?"  "Isn't  that  A  done?" — a  quiet  little 
man  at  my  side  turns  to  me,  and  says,  in  an  under 
tone : 

"  No  one  thinks  of  the  poor  fellow  who  died  here 
this  morning,"  pointing  to  the  bed  directly  back 
of  the  spot  where  our  merry  group  is  gathered. 
"  Died  here  !     To-day  ?     Who  ?     When  ? " 
"Just  about  a  couple  of  hours  ago.     A  man  you 
never  saw;  only  brought  in  a  few  days  since." 

Could  it  be  possible  that  here,  where  we  had  all 
been  so  full  of  mirth  and  gayety,  but  a  few  hours 
since,  on  this  very  spot,  on  this  Christmas  Eve,  too, 
a  soul  had  passed  from  earth — from  its  vigil  here — 
to  keep  the  Festival  —  where?  None  knew,  and 
none  can  ever  know,  till  the  Awful  Day,  when 
"  the  secrets  of  all  hearts  shall  be  revealed." 
There  was  a  special  sadness  about  this  death  I 


120  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

found,  upon  inquiry,  that  the  case  had  not  been 
considered  a  serious  one;  that  the  man  had  even 
spoken  of  being  at  home  on  New  Year's  Day;  that 
the  ladies  had  brought  him  a  drink  that  morning, 
which  they  had  prepared  for  him ;  and  scarcely 
half  an  hour  later,  the  wardm aster,  in  passing,  had 
been  struck  by  his  appearance,  went  up  to  him,  and 
found  him  quite  dead.  Apparently  he  had  died 
calmly  and  without  struggle ;  this  seemed  more 
probable  from  the  fact  that  those  in  the  nearest 
beds,  even,  had  no  idea  of  it ;  but  there  was  a 
loneliness  about  that  passing  which  I  could  not 
forget, 

Had  he  felt  the  dark  cloud  coming  ere  he  entered 
into  its  shadow  ?  Had  he  longed  to  speak — to  call 
— and  had  no  power?  Had  he  yearned  to  send  one 
last  message — one  parting  word  of  love — to  those 
far-away  dear  ones?  We  may  not  know;  and  if 
a  tear  moistened  those  bright  greens,  as  they  lay 
almost  upon  the  spot  where  he  so  late  had  been, 
was  it  not  a  type  of  earth,  and  of  the  constant 
mingling  of  earthly  joy  and  sorrow,  from  which 
we  may  never  escape  long  as  we  linger  here  ? 

"Sorrow  and  gladness  together  go  wending: 
Evil  and  good  come  in  quick  interchange ; 
Fair  and  foul  fortune  forever  are  blending; 
Sunshine  and  cloud  have  the  skies  for  their  range.'' 

I  have  dropped  my  work,  and  am  dwelling  sadly 
on  these  thoughts,  when  I  see  one  or  two  start  up, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  121 

and  rush  over  to  James.  What  is  it?  They  arc 
lifting  him  from  his  chair,  and  placing  him  upon 
his  bed.  Ah!  it  is  one  of  those  terrible  fits;  and 
see,  four  men  are  holding  him  down.  Here  comes 
the  doctor;  let  us  move  away  all  this  work,  and 
keep  him  quiet.  Is  it  our  fault  ?  Have  we  tired 
him  by  our  noise,  and  thus  brought  it  on  ?  Oh  no ! 
the  doctor  is  consoling;  he  does  not  at  all  attribute 
it  to  us;  he  has  them  often,  only  he  must  be  kept 
quite  still;  and  goodbye  to  all  hopes  of  his  Christ 
mas  dinner  in  the  dining-room  to-morrow.  The 
usual  remedies  are  applied,  but  it  is  a  severe  attack, 
and  leaves  him  utterly  prostrated. 

We  all  repair  to  the  dining-room,  and  here  is, 
indeed,  a  scene  of  bustle  and  confusion.  Ladders 
against  the  wall,  men  putting  up  the  half-finished 
sentences,  festooning  the  green  wreaths,  hanging 
the  flag  in  graceful  folds,  so  as  to  dispose  its  bright 
colors  to  the  best  advantage  amidst  the  greens, 
hurrying  in  and  out  on  various  errands,  and  busy 
ing  themselves  about  one  scarcely  can  tell  what, 
only  all  adding  to  the  general  confusion  and  excite 
ment.  Can  any  one  wonder  that  no  sad  impression 
can  continue  where  there  is  so  much  to  turn  the 
attention  and  divert  the  mind?  We  are  conscious 
ourselves  of  its  influence;  and,  of  course,  men,  in 
whom  the  feeling  is  not  a  deep  one,  must  be  much 
more  open  to  it. 

But  here  is  ,  with  all  her  promised  parcels 

11 


122  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

for  the  Christmas  tree;  how  sorry  she  is  to  hear 
of  poor  James'  fit;  but  we  decide  that  it  will  be 
best  to  make  the  tree  for  him,  and  have  it  placed  at 
the  foot  of  his  bed  to-morrow,  to  atone  for  the  loss 
of  the  dinner;  not  to-night,  the  doctor  forbids  all 
excitement  at  present. 

And  now,  here  is  the  tree,  but  how  shall  we  plant 
it  ?  Some  suggest  one  mode,  some  another ;  but 
none  take  it  in  hand,  till  our  ever-obliging  Corning, 
wardmaster  of  our  first  ward,  appears ;  prompt  to 
do,  and  ready  to  act,  he  wastes  no  time  in  words, 
but  bears  off  the  tree,  and  soon  returns  with  it 
firmly  planted  and  ready  for  service.  Thank  you, 
Corning;  what  a  satisfaction  there  is  in  being  so 
promptly  and  pleasantly  served.  And  now  we 

have  hands   enough.     unfolds  her  treasures, 

and  wondering  eyes  and  busy  hands  arc  soon 
occupied  with  them;  and  ere  long  the  tree  stretches 
out  its  green  arms,  laden  with  golden  glories  of 
gilt  balls,  soldiers  in  every  conceivable  costume, 
pocket  mirrors,  which  may  yet  look  upon  more 
warlike  scenes  than  those  they  now  reflect, —  in 
fact,  decorations  of  all  sorts,  suspended  by  red, 
white,  and  blue  cords,  and  glittering  gaily  in  the 
gas  light.  Ah  !  here  is  an  addition ;  thank  you, 
Lawrence;  those  bright  red  apples,  which  he  has 
just  washed  and  polished,  will  have  quite  a  fine 
effect,  as  he  is  hanging  them  among  the  other 


NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  123 

miscellaneous  specimens  which  this  wonderful  tree 
produces. 

We  are  all  satisfied  and  delighted  with  it,  but  the 
great  drawback  is  that  poor  James  cannot  see  it, 
now  that  it  is  done ;  but  Price,  his  wardmaster  and 
faithful  nurse,  has  promised  to  lift  it  in,  and  place 
it  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  in  the  morning,  and  we 
know  that  he  never  neglects  a  promise. 

The  Chaplain  is  to  hold  a  Christmas  Eve  Service 
here,  this  evening  at  seven  o'clock;  so  we  are  anx 
ious  to  have  everything  in  order;  and  really,  it  all 
looks  very  nicely,  and  we  regard  it  quite  compla 
cently,  as  we  take  a  final  survey  of  our  day's  work. 
That  star,  which  -  -  brought  with  her,  covered 
by  kind  hands  at  home,  shines  out  beautifully, 
surmounted  by  the  green  cross;  and  our  Lectern 
holds  up  its  head,  quite  proud  of  itself  in  its 
Christmas  vestments. 

But  now,  we  really  must  wind  up,  for  the  night 
has  come;  and  with  mutual  good  wishes  for  to 
morrow's  enjoyment,  we  say  goodnight. 

As  for  the  day  itself,  I  can  give  you  little  account 
of  that,  as,  of  course,  I  could  not  be  present;  but 
the  dinner  was  described  to  me,  in  glowing  terms, 
by  those  who  were. 

The  turkeys,  the  pies,  the  plum-puddings;  the 
toasts  that  were  given  and  drunk  with  "  three 
times  three"  in  beer,  generously  given  for  the 
purpose. — in  fact,  everything  seemed  to  have  passed 


124  NOTES     OP    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

off  "a  merveille;"  but  the  best  part  of  the  whole, 
was  the  orderly  manner  in  which  it  was  conducted 
—  not  a  single  case  reported  for  the  guard-house. 
This  pleased  us  especially,  as  it  seemed  to  prove 
that  our  efforts  for  the  men's  enjoyment  had  been 
attended  with  no  bad  results,  and  to  make  the 
remembrance  of  our  Christmas  of  1862  one  of  the 
bright  memories  of  our  hospital  experience. 

May  God  grant  that  ere  we  hail  its  dawn  again, 
those  now  in  rebellion  may  have  returned  to  their 
allegiance,  and  thus  enable  us  to  proclaim  a  blessed 
peace  throughout  the  land.  But  there  is  something 
first.  Before  Peace  must  come  Prayer.  We  need 
Prayer;  the  nation  needs  Prayer. 

Do  not  point  me  to  the  little  band  of  people  or 
parishes,  where  the  Daily  Offering  is  made, — where 
throbbing  hearts,  and  souls  yearning  for  the  safety 
of  their  loved  ones,  daily  kneel  before  God's  altar, 
and  in  lowliness  and  penitence  send  up  that  plead 
ing  Avail,  which  seems  as  though  it  must  pierce  the 
very  Heavens,  and  cleave  a  pathway  to  the  mercy- 
seat  : 

"  O,  most  Powerful  and  Glorious  Lord  God,  the 
Lord  of  hosts,  that  rulest  and  commandest  all 
things;  Thou  sittest  in  the  throne,  judging  right, 
and  therefore  we  make  our  address  to  Thy  Divine 
Majesty,  in  this  our  necessity,  that  Thou  wrouldest 
take  the  cause  into  Thine  own  hand,  and  judge 
between  us  and  our  enemies." 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  125 

And  again  : 

"Hear  us,  Thy  poor  servants,  begging  mercy, 
and  imploring  Thy  help ;  and  that  Thou  wouldest 
be  a  defence  unto  us  against  the  face  of  the  enemy." 

Most  thankful  am  I  for  this,  and  for  all  that  we 
have,  little  as  it  is ;  but  I  am  now  looking  at  our 
country  as  a  whole. 

"We  know  the  South  to  be  wrong;  we  know 
ourselves,  or  rather,  our.  cause,  to  be  right.  If, 
then,  we  have  right,  truth,  and  justice  on  our 
side,  why  do  we  not  succeed  —  why  have  we  not 
succeeded  ? 

Is  it  not  that  we  have  been  —  we  are  —  a  sinful 
people,  pluming  ourselves  upon  our  powers,  priding 
ourselves  upon  our  prosperity,  till  we  have  come  to 
look  upon  the  fair  beauty  of  this  land,  lavish  in  its 
loveliness,  as  a  possession  which  is  our  right,  and 
not  as  a  loan,  for  the  use  and  enjoyment  of  which 
we  are  bound  to  return  the  offering  of  grateful 
hearts  ? 

Is  it  not  that  we  have  gone  on  in  a  suicidal  career 
of  extravagance,  luxury,  and  dissipation,  which 
has  finally  brought  its  own  punishment  upon  us? 
Sorely  did  we  need  humbling,  and  sorely  have  we 
been  humbled.  Bitter  has  been  our  lesson,  but 
bitterly  was  it  needed.  The  thought  will  some 
times  arise,  would  that  the  trial  had  come  from 
foreign  foe;  would  that  friend  had  never  lifted 
hand  against  friend,  nor  brother  against  brother! 
11* 


12G  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

Had  that  grand  rising,  at  the  sound  of  Sumter's 
wrong,  which  swelled  throughout  the  North — had 
it,  I  say,  but  thrilled  through  our  whole  land  with 
a  mighty  throb,  till,  with  one  heart  and  hand 
united,  we  had  joined  to  defend  that  Flag,  so 
treacherously  assailed,  where  is  the  foe  we  should 
have  feared  to  face  —  where  the  enemy,  which, 
humanly  speaking,  we  might  not  have  conquered  ? 

But  so,  the  lesson  had  been  lost.  We  had  but 
gained  further  food  for  pride,  farther  motives  for 
self-glorification.  The  medicine  would  but  have 
increased  the  disorder,  the  remedy  added  to  the 
disease.  We  must  acknowledge  —  we  must  recog 
nize  the  Chastening  Hand  which  is  dealing  with  us. 
Where  is  the  victory  which  has  ever  yet,  as  a 
people,  sent  us  to  our  knees  ?  Where  the  defeat 
which  has  ever  yet  been  attributed  to  any  but 
secondary  causes  ?  Want  of  reinforcements,  want 
of  supplies,  want  of  suitable  weather,  want  of  skill 
in  the  commanding  officers, — any  and  every  want 
but  the  true  one. 

We  send  our  men  forth  wanting  the  one  weapon, 
which,  springing  from  its  scabbard,  and  flashing  in 
the  Bright  sunlight  of  Faith  and  Trust,  must  insure 
success.  It  is  the  Sword  of  Prayer. 

"  'Tis  Prayer  that  moves  the  silver  bowers  afar  ; 
Gains  wings,  and  through  the  ever-opened  door, 
Swift  as  the  image  of  the  twinkling  star, 
Shows  its  reflection  in  the  Ocean's  floor; 
It  moves  the  inmates  of  that  Heavenly  Shore, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  127 

As,  gently  rippling  o'er  the  leafy  shade, 
Comes  the  soft,  sighing  gale,  and  passes  o'er  ; 
E'en  so  in  Heaven,  each  Prayer,  in  secret  made, 
Ruffles  a  thousand  Wings  prepar'd  for  instant  aid." 

I  humbly  beg  pardon,  dear  C.  You  asked  for 
some  account  of  our  Christmas  festivities  at  the 
hospital,  and  I  have  been  betrayed  into  what,  I 
fear  you  will  find,  a  tedious  expression  of  my 
feelings  upon  the  questions  wrhich  have  such  an 
absorbing  interest  at  the  present  time.  Forgive 
me  this  once,  and  I  wTill  promise  to  spare  you  in 
future. 


128  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 


POOE  JOSfi! 

"But  these   men   have   no   feeling." 

THE  stormiest  day  of  this  stormy  winter.  Hail, 
rain,  and  snow  seem  to  have  formed  a  precious 
triumvirate  to  take  possession  of  the  day,  "  vi  et 
armis,"  and  claim  it  for  their  own.  1  know  not 
whether  it  is  a  certain  perverseness  of  nature,  or 
a  desire  to  overcome  difficulties,  which  leads  me  to 
prefer  such  blustering,  battling  days,  to  more  serene 
ones;  whatever  may  be  the  cause,  the  fact  will 
account  for  my  finding  myself,  on  this  particular 
morning,  seated  on  the  kitchen  table,  before  the 
hospital  fire,  carrying  on  a  warm  discussion  with 
one  of  the  men,  on  the  merits  of  Ruskin,  as  I  dried 
my  dripping  garments.  A  chance  word  led  to  a 
quotation  by  him  from  one  of  Ruskin's  works,  and 
we  immediately  "  opened  fire"  in  more  senses  than 
one. 

I  found  him  a  man  of  keen  intelligence,  self- 
made,  of  course,  but  a  great  reader,  and  quite 
familiar  with  a  higher  style  of  literature  than  wo 
usually  look  for  here.  Doubtless,  in  his  far-away 
home,  grander  halls  have  echoed  to  the  praises  of 
the  great  Art-teacher  of  the  nineteenth  century, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  129 

made  by  more  appreciative  critics ;  but  I  very 
much  question  whether  he  has  ever  had  more 
earnest,  zealous,  enthusiastic  admirers  than  the 
two  that  day  met,  before  that  kitchen  fire,  on  the 
shores  of  another  continent. 

As  I  walked  through  one  of  the  wards,  a  little 
later,  I  said,  in  passing,  "You  are  better  to-day," 
to  a  man  who  had  been  suffering  from  such  a  severe 
attack  of  erysipelas  in  his  head,  that  his  eyes  had 
been  closed  for  many  days.  The  enormous  swelling 
of  his  head,  added  to  his  long,  matted  beard  and 
thick,  tangled  black  hair,  had  given  him  a  fierce, 
brigand  sort  of  air,  which  was  far  from  being 
dissipated  by  the  appearance  of  a  pair  of  large 
black  eyes,  opened  to-day  for  the  first  time  since 
I  had  seen  him  in  the  hospital. 

"  Better,"  said  he;  "  but  oh,  lady  !— " 

He  turned  his  head  away,  shaking  it  sadly. 

"  What  is  your  grief?"  said  I,  sitting  down  beside 
him. 

"  My  little  ones,  my  little  ones !  "Where  are 
they?  Five  weeks,  dear  lady,  have  I  lain  here, 
and  no  word  have  I  had  from  them." 

A  long,  and  most  sorrowful  story  followed,  of 
which  the  main  points  are  these :  a  Spaniard  by 
birth,  he  had  come  to  this  country  in  search  of 
employment,  settled  in  Philadelphia,  married,  and 
for  several  years  was  prosperous  and  happy,  till 
his  wife  fell  into  bad  habits,  wasted  his  earnings, 


130  NOTES     OP     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

and  brought  them  to  utter  poverty  and  wretched 
ness.  On  one  occasion  he  had  gone  to  a  neighbor 
ing  town  on  business,  and  on  his  return  found  their 
comfortable  home  broken  up,  the  house  and  furni 
ture  sold,  and  his  wife  and  their  three  little  ones  in 
a  poor  hovel,  in  one  of  the  worst  parts  of  the  city. 

]STo  one  who  did  not  hear  him,  can  imagine  the 
pathos  with  which  he  described  his  little  girl's 
illness,  with  all  the  fervor  of  his  warm  Spanish 
nature;  his  care  of  her;  his  walking  the  floor  with 
her  night  after  night,  her  little  arm  around  his 
neck  and  her  head  upon  his  breast;  "for  you  see, 
lady,  it  was  worse  than  if  she  had  had  no  mother." 
His  love  for  her  seemed  to  amount  to  a  passion ; 
his  boys,  he  said,  were  "  nice  little  fellows,"  Juan 
and  Henriquez ;  but  evidently  his  feeling  for  them 
was  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  idolatry 
lavished  upon  his  little  Rosita,  as  he  called  her, 
a  child  of  four  years  old. 

"  I  lie  here  at  night,"  said  he,  the  large  tears 
rolling  down  his  cheeks,  "  and  think  if  I  could  just 
once  have  that  little  hand  in  mine,  that  little  head 
upon  my  breast,  it  would  cure  me  faster  than  all 
this  doctor's  stuff,  far  away  faster." 

From  what  he  told  me,  I  gathered  that  he  had 
enlisted  in  the  war  in  despair;  and  during  his 
absence  his  wife,  for  her  outrageous  conduct,  had 
been  considered  insane,  and  taken  to  the  insane 
department  of  the  almshouse,  where  she  then  was, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  131 

the  children  having  been  taken  to  board  by  a 
woman  in  the  neighborhood  of  their  house.  He 
had  been  unable,  as  he  had  said,  to  hear  anything 
about  them,  and  feared  they  were  ill,  especially  his 
darling  Eosita. 

"  Lady,  dear  lady,  could  you,  would  you  see 
about  them  for  me?" 

"Certainly,"  said  I;  "if  it  is  possible,  I  will  go 
at  once;  but  I  must  first  know  where  they  are." 

"You  will?"  he  said,  "You  really  will?"  with 
an  expression  of  wondering  delight ;  and  then,  as 
though  the  very  thought  brought  peace,  remained 
perfectly  still,  apparently  musing  upon  the  idea. 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  you  do  not  tell  me  where  to  find 
them." 

"  No  — , Street." 

I  started,  and  shook  my  head.  "  That  is  impos 
sible  ;  I  could  not  go  there." 

"  Impossible ! "  he  said,  his  voice  amounting 
almost  to  a  shriek.  "  Don't  say  it !  Go,  dearest 
lady,  go  !  Nothing  could  hurt  you ;  God  will  pro 
tect  you ;  oh  !  go.  I  would  kneel  to  you  if  I  could 
rise." 

"  I  do  not  want  you  to  kneel  to  me;  I  would  go 
at  once,  but  it  would  not  be  right." 

"Not  right!  not  right!"  he  said,  with  utter 
despair  in  his  tone.  "  Oh !  then  what  on  earth 
can  be  right?"  and  covering  his  head  in  the  bed- 


132  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

clothes,  he  groaned  as  though  from  the  depths  of 
his  soul. 

As  this  is  no  autobiography,  it  matters  little  by 
what  train,  either  of  reasoning  or  of  cars,  I  reached 
the  spot  where  I  stood,  an  hour  later;  nor,  for  the 
same  reason,  shall  I  be  more  particular  in  my  de 
scription  of  what  followed,  than  is  necessary  for 
my  narrative.  Suffice  it  to  say,  a  certain  account 
of  "  St.  Margaret's  court,"  in  the  matchless  poem 
of  Aurora  Leigh,  was  before  me,  stereoscoped  into 
life,  never  again  to  be  mere  word-painting. 

A  little,  low,  blue  frame  building;  the  outer 
room,  into  which  you  step  from  the  street,  is  appa 
rently  a  small  green  grocer's  shop.  Strings  of 
suggestive-looking  sausages  hang  in  ropes  from 
the  top  of  the  door  and  window;  pieces  of  black- 
looking  material,  yclept  bacon,  by  courtesy,  are 
piled  up  among  barrels  of  gnarly  green  apples, 
evidently  not  gathered  from  the  gardens  of  the 
Hesperides;  baskets  of  eggs  —  which  I  am  very 
sure  no  tidy  hen  would  ever  confess  to  having 
laid  —  crowd  the  little,  low,  dirty  counter,  behind 
which  stands  the  live  stock  of  this  interesting 
apartment.  And  certainly  the  object  upon  which 
my  eyes  first  rested  did  not  belie  her  "  entourage." 
It  has  been  well  said,  that  the  soul  makes  a  har 
mony  for  itself  in  its  surroundings,  and  thus  char 
acter  is  developed  and  declared.  If  so.  how  beau 
tifully  the  unities  were  here  preserved;  for  wThy 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  133 

should  we  not  have  the  unities  of  dirt,  as  well  as 
those  of  elegance  ?  Doubtless  that  Celtic  soul  found 
as  m\ich  enjoyment  in  seeing  all  around  her  in  such 
perfect  keeping  with  her  own  appearance,  as  Beau 
Brummel  ever  did  in  the  appointments  of  his  famed 
boudoir.  I  should  almost  have  hesitated  to  ask  a 
question  of  this  curious  production  of  nature, — 
something  between  a  crone  and  a  hag,  with  coarse 
Irish  features,  loose  dress,  hair  hanging  down,  and 
apparently  guiltless  of  any  tending  of  either  comb 
or  brush  since  she  had  attained  maturity,  which 
was  certainly  not  yesterday, — had  she  not  herself 
opened  the  way. 

"  Get  out  of  this,  will  you,  Jeivann,  don't  you  see 
the  lady?"  addressed  to  a  dirty,  commonplace- 
looking  little  urchin,  of  about  nine  years  old,  who 
sat  tilting  himself  forward  and  back  upon  the  ed-fc 
of  one  of  the  aforesaid  barrels,  with  infinite  peril 
to  life  and  limb.  This  rather  remarkable  name, 
with  her  felicitous  rendering  of  it,  seemed  to  me 
circumstantial  evidence,  and  I  gathered  courage 
to  ask,  "Are  you  the  person  who  takes  care  of 
Jose's  children  ?  I  have  come  to  see  them  for  him." 

;;Yes,  miss,  walk  in-  we've  but  a  poor  place,  as 
}TOU  see.  Rosy,  come  speak  to  the  lady." 

But  it  needed  not  the  name;  as  soon  as  my  eyes 
rested  on  the  child  in  the  corner,  I  was  satisfied 
that  this  was  her  father's  darling;  and  who  could 
wonder  at  his  love !  Barely  have  I  seen  a  more 


134  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

perfect  specimen  of  "beauty  unadorned" — the 
rarity  of  the  jewel  enhanced  and  thrown  out  by 
the  coarseness  of  its  setting.  She  lifted  her  eyes 
from  the  floor,  on  which  she  was  playing,  to  stare 
at  the  unwonted  visitor  —  large,  liquid,  Spanish 
eyes — with  that  expression  of  love  and  confidence 
in  them  which  seldom  outlives  childhood.  Those 
tangled  black  curls,  her  father's  pride,  were  almost 
hidden  beneath  a  common,  coarse,  little  worsted 
hood,  in  which  she  had  stuck  four  or  five  chicken 
feathers,  which  gave  her  a  sort  of  picturesque  air; 
a  large  stain  of  the  dirt  in  which  she  was  living, 
rested  on  one  cheek;  but  it  seemed  merely  a 
shadow  bringing  out  the  bright  tints  beneath. 

"  Come    here,   Rosy,   I   say,   and   speak   to   the 
lady;   she's  just  seen  your  pappy." 
*  At  that  word  she  sprang  up,  and  came  wonder 
ing  ly  to  my  side,  never  taking  those  eyes  from  my 
face. 

"  Yes,"  said  I;  "  I  have  just  come  from  him,  and 
he  wants  so  badly  to  see  his  little  Eosita;  what 
will  she  send  him?" 

In  a  moment  her  little  arms  were  tightly  clasped 
round  my  neck,  as  I  bent  down  to  speak  to  her,  and 
those  rosy  lips  were  pressed  to  mine,  in  a  warm, 
loving  kiss. 

Quite  aware  that  this  mute  message,  eloquent  as 
it  was,  could  scarcely  be  delivered  with  satisfaction 
to  any  of  the  parties  concerned,  I  drew  one  of  the 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  135 

feathers  from  her  cap,  and  said,  "  Shall  I  tell  him 
his  little  girl  sent  him  this?" 

A  bright,  beaming  smile,  was  the  only  answer  I 
could  extract.  The  woman  now  began  a  piteous 
story  of  having  to  provide  for  them  —  no  money, 
etc.,  etc., —  backed  by  her  husband,  who  appeared, 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  from  some  back  den,  evidently 
hoping  to  extort  funds ;  but  when  they  discovered 
that  I  was  in  possession  of  all  the  facts,  with 
regard  to  the  support  of  the  children,  they  seemed 
to  find  it  useless  to  proceed;  and  finally  agreeing  to 
my  request  that  one  of  them  would  take  the  chil 
dren  to  see  their  father,  I  left  the  direction,  visiting 
days,  etc.,  with  them. 

Once  more  I  stood  by  that  bedside,  which  I  had 
so  lately  left,  with  that  deep  groan  ringing  in  my 
ears. 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  is  ?"  said  I,  holding  up 
the  feather. 

ISTo  answer  from  the  lips,  but  the  eyes  said, 
plainly,  "  I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care." 

I  varied  the  question.  "Do  you  know  where 
that  came  from?" 

He  started,  pierced  me  through  with  those  keen 
black  eyes,  then  said,  seizing  the  hand  in  which  I 
held  it  with  a  grasp  which  secured  my  remembering 
him  for  many  days,  "You  didn't?  —  you  couldn't? 
—it  isn't?" 


136  NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

"  Yes/'  said  I;  "  I  drew  it  from  your  little  girl's 
cap ;  she  sent  it  to  you  with  her  love." 

His  grasp  relaxed ;  and,  burying  his  face  in  the 
pillow,  he  sobbed  aloud.  I  waited,  thinking  he 
would  recover  himself,  but  no  word  came;  hard, 
heavy  sobs,  only  increasing  in  violence,  shook  the 
bed,  and  I  was  frightened  at  the  terrible  emotion 
I  had  called  forth.  Deeming  it  best  not  to  notice 
it,  I  began  quietly  to  give  him  an  account  of  my 
trip,  dwelling  on  the  least  exciting  parts  of  it,  but 
all  of  no  avail ;  apparently  he  did  not  even  hear 
me,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  getting  entirely  beyond 
his  own  control. 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  Here  was  indeed  a 
dilemma.  He  was  exciting  the  attention  of  the 
whole  ward ;  it  was  within  half  an  hour  of  inspec 
tion  when  the  surgeon  in  charge  goes  his  rounds 
through  the  wards, — what  would  he  say  ?  Was  this 
the  way  that  the  ladies  excited  their  patients  ? 
But  beyond  and  above  all,  he  was  injuring  himself; 
and  with  the  tendency  to  inflammation  in  his  head, 
I  dreaded  the  effect  of  such  strong  excitement,  and 
yet  all  I  said  seemed  but  to  increase  it.  Suddenly 
it  occurred  to  me  that  (something  on  the  principle 
of  "  similia  similibus  curantur,"  little  as  I  usually 
admire  the  practice)  perhaps  by  evoking  another 
feeling  equally  powerful,  I  might  calm  him ;  and 
knowing  that  no  one,  be  it  man  or  woman,  will 
ever  submit  quietly  to  blame  without  an  attempt 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  137 

at  self-justification,  I  changed  my  tactics  at  once, 
and  said : 

"  How  it  is  possible,  that  a  father,  who  has  one 
grain  of  love  for  his  children,  can  permit  them  to 
remain  one  day,  or  hour,  in  such  a  den  as  that,  is  to 
me  a  marvel  that  I  cannot  comprehend." 

The  ruse  was  a  perfect  success.  Starting  up  in 
his  bed,  with  flashing  eyes,  he  said,  with  a  vehe 
mence  which  at  another  time  would  have  fright 
ened  me  : 

"  How  cruel !  I  couldn't  help  it,  and  you  know 
I  couldn't;  haven't  I  told  you  how  it  breaks  my 
heart,  night  and  day,  to  think  of  them  there,  and 
I  tied  here  and  can't  get  them  away  ?" 

This  was  all  I  wanted;  he  poured  forth  a  volley 
of  eager  self-defence,  and  ere  it  was  half  over,  my 
mind  was  quite  relieved  about  him,  and  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  him  in  a  short  time  quite 
composed,  and  anxiously  seeking  to  know  every 
particular  of  my  visit.  He  would  not  be  content 
without  hearing  over  and  over  the  most  minute 
details,  all  the  time  stroking  and  patting  the 
feather,  as  though  it  were  indeed  the  little  one 
it  symbolized. 

The  following  Sunday,  as  I  passed  through  the 
ward  to  attend  service,  I  saw  the  three  children 
on  the  bed ;  the  two  boys  seated  at  the  foot,  and 
the  little  Bosita  lying  on  his  breast,  with  that 
dimpled  arm  round  his  neck,  as  he  had  wished. 
12* 


138  NOTES     OP     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

He  smiled  as  he  saw  me,  and  held  up  the  feather. 
I  never  saw  him  again.  I  heard,  the  next  time 
that  I  came  to  the  hospital,  that  news  had  been 
brought  him  of  his  wife's  death  at  the  almshouse ; 
he  had  been  allowed  to  go  out  on  a  pass,  but  had 
failed  to  return,  and  nothing  further  had  been  heard 
from  him. 

Poor  Jose !  We  shall,  in  all  probability,  never 
meet  again  on  earth;  but  I  can  never  think  of  him 
without  finding,  in  his  history,  the  most  powerful 
proof  that  "  these  men  have  feeling." 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  139 


EOBINSON. 

"  WAR  is  an  unmixed  evil ;  look  at  it  as  you  will, 
it  is,  it  must  be,  an  unmixed  evil !" 

This,  in  an  indignant  tone,  from  one,  standing  at 
my  side,  gazing  at  one  of  its  saddest  results. 

"An  evil,  I  grant/'  said  I;  "unmixed  I  deny. 
War  and  its  attendants  Lave  a  grand  side.  Do 
not  start,  and  look  so  reproachfully  at  me ;  were 
we  standing  on  another  spot,  and  were  the  circum 
stances  different,  I  would  tell  you  all  I  mean;  but 
let  it  pass." 

We  were  in  no  mood  for  argument  then,  and  the 
subject  dropped;  but  it  recurred  frequently  to  my 
mind,  and  the  more  I  have  dwelt  upon  it,  the  more 
I  am  convinced  (your  pardon,  dear  speaker !)  that 
such  a  statement  is  not,  cannot  be  true.  War  Las 
its  compensations,  its  beautiful  compensations ;  and 
I  very  much  question,  whether,  if  the  statistics 
of  the  good  deeds,  the  kind,  warm,  large-hearted 
actions,  could  be  registered,  as  are  those  of  crime, 
we  should  not  find  that  those  performed  in  times 
of  war,  greatly  overbalance  those  in  times  of 
peace.  Great  crises  call  forth  and  compel  great 
deeds. 


140  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

Where  is  the  battle-field  since  Sumter's  sad 
surprise,  which  cannot  boast,  not  one,  but  many 
Sir  Philip  Sydney's,  with  the  earnest  "  Take  it ;  thy 
need  is  greater  than  mine  ?  "  Magnanimity  need  no 
longer  be  confined  to  the  field  of  Ziitphen,  and  each 
child  be  taught  the  story  as  though  it  stood  alone. 
Where  the  hospital  where  wTe  may  not  see  some 
thing  of  sublimity  in  the  beautiful  forgetfulness 
of  self,  the  untiring  devotion  with  which  plain, 
poor  men  watch,  night  after  night,  by  a  dying 
comrade, —  a  stranger  till  those  walls  had  made 
them  brothers  ?  Where  the  home,  high  or  humble, 
which  fails  to  show  the  brave-hearted  wife,  mother, 
daughter,  or  sister,  giving  for  her  country  a  life  far 
dearer  than  her  own,  to  danger  and  to  death  ?  Is 
there  no  moral  grandeur,  no  moral  heroism  here  ? 
A  sad  soul,  so  struggling  with,  yet  surmounting 
sorrow;  so  sending  forth  her  sure  support  and 
stay,  then  turning  calmly  and  quietly  to  take  up 
her  lonely  cross  and  bear  the  burden  of  daily  life, 
by  virtue  of  such  act  reaches  a  spiritual  elevation 
which  times  of  peace  could  rarely,  if  ever,  witness. 
I  see  the  laugh  —  I  hear  the  cutting  remark, 
"  Such  a  woman's  view  V  but  I  know  these  things 
are  true,  for  I  have  witnessed  them  •  and,  be  it 
remembered,  that  ridicule  is  not  reasoning,  nor 
satire  always  sound  sense.  Never  can  I  listen  to 
this  statement,  that  "  War  is  an  unmixed  evil/' 
without  longing  to  combat  it;  and  added  to  that, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  141 

but  this  very  morning,  the  same  belligerent  desire 
was  excited  in  my  mind  by  reading  an  opinion, 
somewhat  dogmatically  asserted,  that,  "  In  these 
days,  Apollo  must  give  place  to  Mars." 

"  Xot  so,"  I  answered  then;  "not  so,"  I  answer 
now.  Apollo  never  gathers  in  a  heavier  harvest — 
never  stores  stouter  sheaves,  than  those  mowed 
down  by  the  chariot  wheels  of  the  God  of  War, 
as  he  dashes  onward  in  his  headlong  career.  Ask 
the  world,  since  creation's  dawn,  and  she  will  tell 
you  that  Apollo  clings  to  Mars;  and  if  he  ever 
"  gives  place,"  it  is  only  that  he  may  follow  on  the 
fiery  track  of  his  great  leader,  sure  of  grander 
opportunities  in  the  waxing  and  waning  of  one 
moon,  than  a  life-time  of  peace  could  give. 

And  even  granting  (which  I  never  wTill)  that 
Apollo  pauses  in  his  course — that  his  lyre  "  lingers 
o'er  its  lays" — are  not  the  daily  deeds  of  our  loved 
land,  at  this  moment,  prouder  poems  than  this 
continent  has  ever  yet  produced  ?  Where  can  we 
find  such  stirring  strains,  such  ringing  rhythm, 
such  burning  ballads,  such  lyric  lays,  such  sublime 
sonnets,  such  ever-during  epics,  as  these  times  of 
ours  call  forth  ?  Is  not  each  soldier  a  poet  in  his 
way  ?  And  shall  his  verse  have  the  less  power,  for 
that  it  is  set  to  martial  music  ?  Shall  it  touch  our 
hearts  the  less  ?  Rather,  shall  not  every  chord 
vibrate  ten  thousand  times  the  more,  for  that  the 
pages  on  which  it  is  written  are  the  fair  fields  of 


142  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

our  own  dear  country;  its  pen,  the  sword;  its  ink, 
the  heart's  blood  of  our  brothers  ? 

But  I  have  wandered  wide  of  my  mark.  I  seated 
myself  to  note  a  simple  story,  of  one  of  that  ever 
growing  army  who  have  nobly  given  their  young 
lives  to  their  country. 

I  have  made  allusion  before  to  my  whistling 
friend,  Robinson,  who  was  brought  to  the  hospital 
at  the  same  time  with  our  poor  Darlington,  from 
the  same  regiment,  and  wrounded  in  the  same  battle, 
— that  of  "  Fair  Oaks."  His  left  arm  was  terribly 
shattered,  just  below  the  shoulder,  and  injuring  the 
shoulder-blade ;  and  for  a  long  time  his  case  was  a 
very  critical  one,  requiring  the  most  close  and 
constant  watching.  He  was  entirely  confined  to 
his  bed  for  many  tedious  weeks,  and  yet  I  know 
not  why  I  should  apply  that  term  to  the  time  so 
passed;  for  they  were  certainly  never  "tedious" 
to  us,  although  we  felt  great  anxiety  for  him,  and 
we  never  had  any  proof  that  they  were  so  to  him. 
Patient  and  uncomplaining,  the  only  sign  he  gave 
of  suffering,  save  the  contraction  of  his  brow,  was 
the  constant  effort  to  whistle  away  the  pain,  and 
his  moans  in  his  sleep.  There  was  always  some 
thing  inexpressibly  sad  to  me  in  these  moans;  it 
seemed  as  though  the  body  were  compensating 
itself,  during  sleep,  for  the  powerful  restraint 
imposed  upon  it  during  waking  hours. 

I  have  rarely  seen  greater  unselfishness  in  any 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL     LIFE.  143 

one.  During  his  illness,  it  was  all-important  to 
keep  up  his  strength,  for  as  the  wound  began  to 
heal,  one  abscess  followed  another,  and  kept  him 
much  prostrated;  we  therefore  tried  to  tempt  his 
appetite  in  every  way;  and  often,  when  I  have 
brought  him  some  delicacy,  he  has  pointed  me 
to  some  one  near  him,  with  the  words,  "  Please 
give  it  to  him;  he  cares  for  such  things  more  than 
I  do." 

His  love  for  his  mother,  and  anxiety  to  spare  her 
all  unnecessary  suffering  on  his  account,  was  very 
beautiful,  and  attracted  me  to  him  from  the  first. 
His  weakness  was  so  great  that  he  was  utterly 
unable,  for  a  long  time,  even  to  feed  himself,  and 
of  course,  could  not  write.  When  I  offered  to  do 
so  for  him,  he  declined,  saying,  that  she  knew, 
through  a  friend,  that  he  was  here ;  and  that  the 
sight  of  a  strange  hand,  with  the  conviction  that 
it  would  bring  that  he  was  too  ill  to  write  for 
himself,  would  be  worse  for  her  than  to  wait  for 
a  little  while. 

One  day,  some  time  afterwards,  I  came  to  his 
bedside  and  found  a  paper  lying  there  with  a  few 
unmeaning  scratches,  as  I  thought,  upon  it;  he 
held  them  up  to  me. 

"  The  best  I  could  do/' 

"What  were  you  trying  to  do?"  said  I;  "did 
you  mean  that  for  drawing  ? " 


14-4  NOTES     OP    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

A  look  of  intense  disappointment  passed  over 
his  face. 

"I  was  afraid  so,"  said  he;  "then  it  would 
frighten  her,  as  I  thought.  I  meant  it  for  my 
signature,  and  I've  looked  at  it,  and  looked  at  it, 
and  hoped  it  didn't  look  as  bad  as  I  thought,  at 
first ;  but  if  you  ask  what  I'm  trying  to  do,  when 
you  see  it,  the  game's  up,  and  it's  no  use." 

I  assured  him  that  such  a  signature  would  be  far 
stronger  proof  of  the  real  state  of  the  case,  than 
any  letter  I  could  send  telling  the  facts,  and  giving 
the  reasonable  ground  for  hope  which  we  now  felt. 
But  he  still  preferred  to  wait;  and  ere  very  long 
we  found,  by  pinning  the  paper  to  the  table,  to 
keep  it  firm,  he  could  execute  a  tolerably  legible 
epistle.  The  weeks  rolled  on,  and,  by  slow  degrees, 
he  regained  his  strength;  his  bright,  hopeful  dis 
position,  even  temper,  and  uniform  cheerfulness, 
were  great  aids  to  his  recovery;  and  we  watched 
his  improvement  with  great  satisfaction,  and  at 
last  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  able  to  be  up, 
and  even  out,  for  a  short  time. 

He  came  to  me,  one  morning,  in  our  ladies' 

room,  saying,  "  Miss  ,  would  it  be  troubling 

you  too  much,  to  ask  you  to  write  to  mother?" 

"  Brought  to  it,  at  last !"  said  I.  "  Why  do  you 
ask  me  now,  Robinson,  when  you  have  refused  so 
often  before,  and  can  write  for  yourself?" 

"That's  just  it;  she  won't  believe  what  I  say; 


NOTES     OP     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  145 

thinks  I'm  fooling  her,  and  pretending  to  be  better 
than  I  really  am;  and  has  an  idea  they're  going  to 
take  my  arm  off,  and  I'm  keeping  it  from  her;  and 
I  thought  if  you'd  just  write,  and  tell  her  it  wasn't 
coming  off,  she'd  be  sure  to  believe  you." 

"  Sure  to  believe  a  stranger  in  preference  to  her 
own  son,  Robinson  ?  Does  that  tell  well  for  the 
son?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  think  so;  she  knows  you  could 
have  no  object  in  deceiving  her;  while  the  thing 
I  care  most  for  in  the  world,  is  to  keep  her  from 
fretting,  and  she  knows  it." 

There  was  no  combating  this  reasoning,  and  in 
a  short  time  I  received  a  beautiful  answer  to  my 
letter,  well  written  and  well  expressed,  confirming 
all  that  Robinson  had  told  us : — That  he  was  the 
youngest  son,  and  had  always  been  carefully  and 
tenderly  brought  up ;  that  he  had  two  brothers,  the 
only  other  children — one  had  gone  to  Texas,  before 
the  breaking  out  of  the  rebellion,  and  never  having 
heard  from  him  since,  they  feared  he  had  been 
pressed  into  the  rebel  service;  fortunately  she  had 
never  heard,  and  I  trust,  now,  never  may  hear  what 
Robinson  had  told  us, — that,  while  pressing  on,  at 
the  battle  of  Fair  Oaks,  over  heaps  of  the  enemy's 
dead,  he  saw  an  up-turned  face  on  the  field,  w^ounded 
or  dead,  he  knew  not  which, — that  face,  he  said,  ho 
never  could  mistake — it  was  that  of  his  brother ! 

We  tried  to  convince  him  that  this  was  most 
13 


146  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

improbable  —  that  his  imagination  was  excited  at 
the  time,  and  that  the  dread  that  such  a  thing 
might  happen  had  been  "father  to  the  thought;" 
but  in  vain ;  we  never  could  persuade  him  to  the 
contrary;  and  yet,  whether  from  a  doubt  in  his 
mind,  or  the  dread  of  the  pain  it  must  cause,  he 
never,  as  we  afterwards  found,  had  made  any 
allusion  to  the  subject  in  his  letters  home. 

One  morning,  after  he  had  been  able  to  be  about, 
and  even  out  for  some  weeks,  I  was  surprised,  on 
going  into  his  ward,  to  find  him  in  bed  again. 

"Why,  Robinson,  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  there! 
What  have  you  been  doing?" 

He  hesitated,  twisted  the  end  of  his  coverlet,  but 
made  no  answer. 

"Nothing  wrong,  I'm  very  sure  of  that.  It 
wasn't  your  own  fault,  was  it?"  said  I,  fearing 
he  thought  I  doubted  him,  as  so  many  of  the 
relapses  here  are  caused  by  excess,  the  moment 
the  men  are  able  to  be  out,  and  I  well  knew  there 
was  no  such  danger  here. 

He  looked  up  at  me,  at  once,  with  his  clear, 

honest  eyes,  and  said,  "Yes,  Miss  ,  all  my 

own  fault;  but  I  thought  she  worried  so 

"Your  mother?"  I  questioned. 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  and  if  I  could  just  slip  my  arm 
into  my  coat-sleeve  long  enough  to  have  my  pic 
ture  taken,  she'd  see  it  was  better,  and  it  would  set 


NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  147 

her  mind  at  rest  more  than  all  the  letters  I  could 
write." 

So  to  satisfy  this  mother's  heart,  the  poor  wounded 
shoulder  had  been  forced  into  its  sleeve,  giving  him, 
as  it  did,  several  weeks  of  added  suffering  and  con 
finement  to  his  bed.  Can  any  one  wonder  that  such 
a  man  should  have  won  his  way  to  our  hearts; — or 
at  our  regret,  when  we  found  he  was  to  be  trans 
ferred  to  another  hospital,  at  some  distance  from 
the  city?  We  thus  lost  sight  of  him  for  many 
months.  Several  times  when  I  asked  after  him, 
at  our  own  hospital,  I  was  told  that  he  had  been 
there  but  a  short  time  since ;  sometimes  the  week 
before ;  sometimes  only  the  day  before ;  but  it  so 
happened  that  we  never  met.  His  wound,  they 
told  me,  was  far  from  well,  varying  very  much; 
some  days  giving  hope  that  it  would  heal,  and 
then  bursting  out  again.  I  had  received  many 
and  urgent  letters  from  his  mother,  before  he 
left  us,  begging  me  to  use  all  the  influence  I  could 
bring  to  bear,  to  have  him  transferred  to  a  hospital 
near  his  home;  (this  was,  of  course,  before  the 
present  order  on  that  subject  had  been  given)  but 
on  applying  to  the  surgeon,  I  found  that  he  con 
sidered  his  wound  far  too  serious  to  attempt  the 
journey,  and  that  Robinson  so  fully  agreed  with 
him,  that  I  wrote  the  poor  disappointed  mother 
to  that  effect,  trying  to  console  her  with  the  hope 
of  restoring  him  to  her,  ere  very  long,  perfectly 


148  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

cured.  The  winter  slipped  away;  the  pressure 
of  present  hospital  duties  and  interests  had  almost 
crowded  out  all  thoughts  of  Robinson,  when  I  am 
surprised,  one  sunny  April  afternoon,  to  receive  a 
note  from  one  of  our  lady  visitors,  telling  me  of 
Robinson's  extreme  illness,  and  that  it  is  scarcely 
supposed  he  can  recover. 

An  hour  later  finds  M.  and  myself  driving  rapidly 
out  to  the  hospital  where  he  now  is ;  and  here  we 
are  at  the  gates ;  how  shall  we  enter  !  Ah  !  we  do 
not  now  fear  a  guard  with  a  bayonet,  as  we  should 
have  done  some  time  since;  and  fifteen  minutes 
more  suffices  for  all  the  necessary  "red  tape"  con 
nected  with  admittance,  and  we  are  at  the  door 
of  Robinson's  ward,  listening  to  the  wardmaster's 
answer  to  our  question  : 

"  Yes,  ladies,  walk  in  ;  but  he  won't  know  you ; 
he's  too  low,  and  he's  nighty  all  the  time." 

"  Wont  know  us  !"  Robinson  not  know  us  !  We 
cannot  believe  that;  but  see!  he  is  leading  the 
way;  and  we  follow  to  a  bed  where  lies  a  man 
tossing  restlessly,  and  talking,  or  rather  muttering 
to  himself  in  an  indistinct  tone;  his  bandaged 
shoulder  and  arm  resting  on  a  pillow,  for  an  opera 
tion  has  been  performed  —  a  large  piece  of  bone 
extracted — and  the  result  still  doubtful.  Doubtful? 
Xo;  too  certain;  that  face  is  enough.  Poor  mother 
in  your  western  home,  you  can  never  look  upon 
your  boy,  till  you  meet  at  the  final  Bar,  in  the 


NOTES     OP    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  149 

presence  of  your  Judge  !  God  in  his  mercy  grant 
that  it  may  be  to  spend  a  happy  eternity  together  ! 

And  yet,  as  we  stand,  we  find  ourselves  almost 
doubting  whether  this  can  really  be  our  merry, 
laughing,  whistling  Eobinson.  Little  hope,  indeed, 
that  he  will  recognize  us,  but  let  us  try. 

"Eobinson,  do  you  know  me?"  He  starts,  and 
in  a  moment  the  vacant  gaze  changes  into  one  of 
his  old  bright  smiles  of  recognition. 

'•  Know  you  !  Why  shouldn't  I  know  you  ?  How 

long  it  is.  Miss .  since  I  have  seen  you, —  and 

you  too/'  added  he,  stretching  out  his  hand  to  M. ; 
but  even  as  he  spoke,  his  expression  changed,  and 
his  mind  wandered  again. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  all  our  care  —  this  the 
result  of  so  many  weary  months  of  suifering.  He 
seemed  pleased  at  our  coming,  and  would  answer 
any  direct  question,  but  could  not  sustain  a  con 
versation  of  even  a  few  moments.  We  found  our 
old  friend,  i;  handsome  Harry/'  of  concert  memory, 
who  had  been  transferred  at  the  same  time,  estab 
lished  here  as  Robinson's  devoted  nurse,  although 
entirely  unable  to  move  without  crutches.  He  told 
us  that  the  surgeon  had  told  him  that  morning, 
that  if  his  family  wished  to  see  him,  he  had  better 
telegraph  for  them  at  once.  Eobinson  heard  us, 
and  catching  the  word  "  telegraph/'  said  quickly, 
"  Don't  telegraph ;  father's  poor,  and  he  might 
13* 


150  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

come  on ;  I'll  be  better  soon,  and  get  a  furlough, 
and  go  out  to  them." 

"But,  Robinson,"  said  I,  "you  are  very  ill;  per 
haps  you  may  not  be  better,  and  you  would  like  to 
see  your  father." 

"  I  don't  think  I'm  very  ill — they  said  so  to-day; 
but  I  think  I'll  come  round  soon." 

The  next  moment  he  was  on  the  field,  and  evi 
dently  going  over  the  fatal  "  Fair  Oaks"  fight. 

His  friend  Harry  told  us  that  it  had  been  his 
most  earnest  desire  and  longing  to  see  his  father; 
and  that  he  had  urged  him,  some  days  ago,  if  he 
should  be  worse,  to  let  them  know  at  home.  I 
therefore  wrote  the  telegram  on  his  table,  and  we 
drove  to  the  office  on  our  return  to  the  city,  that 
no  time  might  be  lost. 

I  was  detained  at  home  for  the  two  succeeding 
days ;  but  some  of  our  ladies  went  out  to  see  him 
each  day,  as  he  was  a  general  favorite ;  one  lady 
going  in  a  pouring  rain,  although  she  knew  that 
she  would  have  nearly  a  mile  to  walk  after  leaving 
the  cars ;  their  report  of  the  case  was  most  unfavor 
able.  On  the  third  day,  the  Rev.  Mr. ,  who  had 

been  a  most  constant  and  faithful  friend  to  Robin 
son,  in  our  hospital,  went  out  with  me.  When  we 
arrived,  we  found  him  in  a  terrible  state  of  excite 
ment;  he  had  been  talking,  and  was  now  almost 
shrieking,  and  dashing  himself  from  side  to  side. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  151 

"  It's  no  use  speaking  to  him,  to-day,"  said  the 
wardmaster ;  "he  don't  know  anybody/' 

But  once  again  I  tried  it,  and  once  again  he 
extended  his  hand,  and  repeated  my  name,  and 

then  said,  "And  Mr. ,  how  very  kind  in  him 

to  come !" 

I  sat  down  by  him,  and  tried  to  soothe  and  calm 
that  dreadful  restlessness;  his  mind  was  too  much 
gone  for  words,  I  only  gently  stroked  his  brow  and 
fanned  him.  "  I  am  out  on  the  water;  out  on  the 
water!"  was  his  one  cry,  from  a  low  tone,  ascend 
ing  till  it  amounted  almost  to  a  scream.  Truly  he 
was  "  out  on  the  water,"  and  where  was  compass 
or  chart  for  the  final  voyage  ?  Those  words,  with 
the  constant  repetition  of  his  brother's  name,  were 
the  last  I  ever  heard  him  utter.  The  only  moment 

of  calmness  I  noticed,  was  when  Mr. knelt 

at  his  bedside  and  repeated  those  soul-soothing 
Prayers,  from  the  "  Visitation  of  the  Sick."  He 
attempted  no  conversation,  for  we  well  knew 
Robinson  was  in  no  state  to  bear  it.  We  had  felt 
from  the  first,  that  Prayer  for  him,  was  all  that  we 
could  offer;  not  with  him,  as  his  intervals  of  con 
sciousness  were  merely  momentary.  His  father 
had  not  yet  arrived,  and  there  appeared  little  hope 
that  he  could  now  do  so.  in  time,  as  he  was  very 
much  lower  than  on  my  last  visit,  and  evidently 
sinking.  As  our  presence  could  give  him  no  com 
fort,  we  left  him  with  heavy  hearts. 


152  NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

When  I  reached  there  the  next  day,  I  found  that 
an  order  had  been  given  prohibiting  all  admittance 
for  visitors  to  his  ward,  as  the  surgeon  thought  that 
Robinson  had  been  excited  by  those  he  had  seen 
the  day  before,  but  that  his  father  had  come,  and 
that  we  could  see  him;  he  had  arrived  that  morning. 

There  are  few  things  connected  with  this  hospital 
work  which  I  recall  with  more  pleasure  than  the 
simple,  earnest  gratitude  of  this  bronzed  and 
weather-beaten  old  man,  for  the  trifling  kindnesses 
which  we  had  been  able  to  offer  to  his  boy.  There 
was  something  about  him  altogether  so  real,  so 
honest,  genuine,  and  sincere,  that  one  could  not 
help  feeling  drawn  to  him  at  once.  He  was  a 
rough,  plain,  Western  man,  primitive  in  the  ex 
treme  ;  but  no  one  could  listen  to  him  without 
the  consciousness  that  a  warm,  true,  noble  heart, 
beat  beneath  that  uncouth  exterior. 

Had  the  telegram  been  a  day  later,  he  could  not 
have  reached  here  for  nearly  a  week  longer.  The 
train,  which  only  runs  on  certain  days,  left  the 
morning  after  he  received  the  news  ;  he  had 
travelled  night  and  day,  making  every  connection, 
and  performing  the  journey  as  rapidly  as  it  could 
be  done. 

His  boy,  he  said,  had  recognized  him.  and  he  was 
pleased  to  find  him  better  than  he  had  hoped  for. 
He  thought  with  care  he  would  get  well  now,  and 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  153 

he  was  going  at  once  to  telegraph  the  good  news  to 
his  wife. 

We  were  thunderstruck;  how  could  he  be  so 
deceived  ?  For  although  we  had  not  seen  Bobin- 
son  that  day,  we  well  knew  he  was  in  a  condition 
from  which  he  could  not  rally.  It  seemed  therefore 
no  kindness  to  allow  his  mother  to  be  tortured  with 
false  hope,  and  we  earnestly  represented  (hard  as 
it  seemed  to  do  so)  that  the  surgeons  did  not  look 
for  any  improvement }  but  all  in  vain, — he  had  seen 
sickness — he  had  seen  doctors  mistaken  before  now 
—his  boy  was  going  to  get  well ;  so  he  accompanied 
us  to  the  telegraph  station,  and  sent  his  message. 
That  evening  I  was  told  some  one  wanted  to  see 

me,  from  the hospital,  and  on  going  out,  wras 

met  by  the  words,  "  Miss ,  my  boy's  gone,  my 

boy's  gone!"  and  a  burst  of  sobs,  which  seemed 
as  though  it  must  shake  that  poor  old  frame  to 
pieces. 

He  had  scarcely  left,  in  the  morning,  to  send  his 
hopeful  telegram,  when  the  change  took  place,  and 
Robinson  breathed  his  last  just  as  his  father  reached 
his  bedside.  The  blow  fell  heavier,  as  we  had  feared, 
from  the  strong  hope  he  had  persisted  in  entertain 
ing,  and  even  then  it  seemed  as  though  he  were  too 
much  bewildered  and  stunned  to  realize  fully  what 
had  occurred.  There  was  something  inexpressibly 
touching  in  the  grief  of  that  poor,  bowed-down  old 
man,  shattered  as  he  was,  too,  by  hard  travel  and 


154  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

loss  of  rest ;  and  yet  I  hardly  knew  how  to  comfort 
him,  or  to  answer  that  sad  appeal,  "  How  can  I  go 
back  to  his  mother  without  him?"  Deep  grief 
must  ever  bear  with  it  a  reverence  of  its  own,  and 
this  seemed  something  one  scarcely  dared  meddle 
with. 

He  said  the  funeral  was  to  take  place  the  next 
afternoon,  and  begged  that  the  ladies  who  had  been 
so  kind  to  him  would  be  present  for  his  mother's 
sake;  he  thought  it  would  comfort  her  to  know  it. 
I  readily  consented,  and  promised  to  inform  the 
others. 

He  rose  to  go,  and  drawing  a  little  paper  from 
his  pocket,  said,  "  I  thought  maybe  you  might  care 
for  this ;  it  is  a  lock  of  my  boy's  hair,  which  I  cut 
off  for  you,  and  I  thought  his  mother  would  be 
glad  to  know  you  had  it." 

I  expressed  my  feelings  in  a  few  words,  which 
seemed  to  soothe  and  gratify  him. 

That  poor  mother  seemed  never  out  of  his 
thoughts;  and  again  and  again  would  he  repeat 
that  piteous  question,  "How  can  I  go  back  to  her 
without  him?" 

But  he  need  not  have  feared ;  that  mother's  heart 
was  anchored  on  the  Rock  which  alone  can  with 
stand  the  storms  of  earth.  Listen  to  but  one 
sentence  from  her  first  letter  (to  one  of  the  ladies, 
who  had  been  a  kind  and  constant  correspondent,) 
after  that  sad  return. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  155 

"At  first  it  seemed  I  could  not  bear  it.  My  bright- 
faced,  joyous  boy — my  sunbeam !  But  soon  came 
the  thought,  how  short  the  journey  would  be  for 
me  to  go  to  him,  and  that  my  sunbeam  would  now 
shed  its  ray  upon  me  from  the  sky,  to  light  my 
path  onward  and  upward." 

It  would  be  of  little  avail,  to  go  into  the  dreary 
details  of  that  dreariest  afternoon.  Touching  in 
the  extreme  did  it  seem  to  see  the  little  band  (for 
the  ladies  willingly  agreed  to  the  request  to  be 
present)  take  their  places  as  mourners,  with  the 
father;  mourners  in  reality,  though  so  lately 
strangers;  mourners,  for  we  claimed  a  right  to 
grieve;  for  was  it  not,  as  1  have  said,  a  young 
life,  given  for  our  country  as  well  as  his  ? — for  the 
one  common  cause,  which  forms  so  strong  a  bond 
between  all  loyal  hearts  ? 

A  heavy,  pouring  rain  added  to  the  general 
gloom ;  the  only  comfort  came  from  the  words 
of  our  Burial  Service,  which  must  always  fall  with 
blessed  balm  upon  the  sorrowful  soul.  It  was 
performed  at  his  father's  request,  and  with  the 
permission  of  the  surgeon  in  charge,  by  Robinson's 

kind  and  true  friend,  the  Rev.  Mr. ,  to  whom  I 

have  alluded  before. 

It  was  a  long,  long  time  ere  I  could  forget  the 
face  of  that  broken-hearted  old  father,  as — every 
thing  over — he  stood  at  the  door,  as  we  drove  off, 
leaving  him  lonely  and  desolate  among  strangers. 


156  NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

He  was  to  start  that  night  alone,  in  the  rain,  on 
his  sad,  homeward  journey,  and  seemed  to  long  to 
keep  us  with  him  to  the  last ;  and  how  we  longed 
to  stay  to  comfort  him  !  But  we  must  say  goodbye, 
and  with  a  long,  warm  grasp  of  that  rough  hand, 
wre  parted,  and  one  more  hospital  sorrow  was  over. 
Brave,  gentle,  heroic  heart !  The  aching  limb, 
the  suffering  frame,  the  strained,  excited  nerves 
are  stilled  forever.  Eobinson  sleeps  in  a  land  of 
strangers;  but  the  turf  that  covers  that  "soldier's 
grave  "  will  be  moistened  and  kept  green  by  the 
tears  of  those  who  can  never  forget  that  bright 
example  of  noble  unselfishness,  and  beautiful 
patience  under  severest  suffering  and  trial. 

"I   AM    OUT    ON   THE   WATER!" 

U.  S.  A.  HOSPITAL,  April,  1863. 

Out  on  the  water !     No  compass,  no  chart ! 
The  sails  all  in  ribbons  ;  the  timbers  apart ! 
The  vessel  is  tossing,  the  storm  driving  fast, 
Out  on  the  water;  nor  rudder,  nor  mast! 

Out  on  the  water !     The  dark  night  hath  come  ; 
The  ocean  is  boiling  and  seething  in  foam ; 
We  see  the  waves  break  o'er  the  poor  battered  boat, — 
Out  on  the  water;  a  soul  is  afloat ! 

Out  on  the  water  !     Quick  !  reach  him  a  spar  ! 
It  is  not  too  late,  drift  he  never  so  far; 
Hold  to  it !     Cling  to  it  while  the  waves  toss, 
Out  on  the  water, — the  Spar  of  The  Cross ! 

Out  on  the  water !     Is't  harbor  at  last ; 
Are  "  the  waves  of  this  troublesome  world  "  safely  passed  ? 
We  pray,  through  That  Spar,  that  the  soul  hath  made  Port — 
That,  out  on  the  water,  The  Cross  was  Support. 


NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  157 


THE   RETURN   TO    THE   REGIMENT. 

A  BRIGHT,  sunshiny  week.  Moral  sunshine,  I 
mean ;  for  like  St.  Peter's,  at  Rome,  our  hospital 
may  be  said  to  have  "  an  atmosphere  of  its  own" — 
our  brightness  or  dulness  being  in  a  great  measure 
dependent  upon  the  state  of  our  patients.  Deaths, 
or  very  severe  cases  of  illness,  naturally  have  their 
effect  in  casting  a  shadow  on  everything  around ; 
but  at  present,  most  fortunately,  we  have  nothing 
of  the  kind ;  and  our  principal  grief  (though  in  a 
very  mild  form)  has  been  from  the  daily  partings 
caused  by  the  return  of  our  men  to  their  regiments; 
which,  from  some  unknown  cause,  seems  to  have 
been  the  sole  business  of  the  last  few  days.  The 
"  Hegira  "  has  been  going  on  steadily  through  the 
whole  week,  and  we  have  been  busily  occupied  in 
helping  to  stow  treasures  into  impossible  spaces  in 
knapsacks,  slipping  in  some  little  contribution  of 
our  own,  to  call  up,  perhaps,  a  smile  of  surprise 
when  opened  far  from  here;  in  putting  up  lunches 
for  the  travellers  —  for  it  has  happened  that  some 
of  our  brave  boys  have  fainted  on  the  way  from 
exhaustion  produced  by  delay  in  getting  their 
meals;  therefore,  by  the  surgeon's  orders,  they 
14 


158  NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

are  always  provided  when  they  start — and  finally, 
in  bidding  them  "  Goodbye,  and  God  speed !" 

This  returning  to  regiments  has  amounted  to  an 
epidemic  this  week;  the  contagion  is  spreading 
rapidly,  and  it  is  very  plain  that  Dame  Example 
has,  in  this  case,  been  exerting  herself  for  good. 
She  has  taken  some  of  our  chronic  cases  by  the 
hand,  lifted  them  out  of  bed,  and  made  them  feel 
that  effort  and  firm  resolve  will  do  more  for  them 
than  yielding  to  the  languor  of  a  slow  convales 
cence.  One  may  ask,  "  Is  it,  then,  at  the  option 
of  the  men,  when  they  shall  return  to  their  regi 
ments?" 

"  Most  certainly  not." 

"Does  not  the  surgeon  decide  that  point?" 

"  Most  certainly  he  does." 

The  surgeon  of  each  ward  makes  out  his  list  of 
men  fit  for  service,  and  hands  it  to  the  surgeon  in 
charge,  who  in  his  turn  examines  the  men  so 
reported  and  returns  them  to  their  different  posts ; 
but,  as  we  all  know  how  much  the  mind  has  to  do 
with  the  body,  men  who  have  seemed  quite  unfit 
for  duty,  often,  under  the  stimulus  of  one  of  these 
departures,  rouse  themselves,  make  an  effort,  and 
find  that  a  little  exertion  was  the  only  thing  needed 
to  fit  them  for  their  work.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
this  strong  desire  sometimes  carries  them  too  far; 
a  case  in  point  occurred  this  morning. 

"  Why,  Shaw,  my  man  !  out  of  bed  to-day  ?     I'm 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL     LIFE.  159 

glad  to  see  you  up ;  you'll  soon  be  off,  with  the 
other  boys/' 

This,  from  the  cheerful  voice  of  one  of  our  sur 
geons,  to  a  man  who,  from  a  long  fever,  had  been 
too  feeble,  for  many  months,  to  do  more  than  sit 
up  in  bed  for  a  short  time. 

"That's  just  it,  doctor;  Pat's  going  to-day,  and 
I  can't  let  him  go  without  me.  I  think  I  could 
bear  it,  maybe.  Won't  you  let  me  try?" 

I  noticed  a  slight  look  of  surprise  on  the  doctor's 
face ;  he  pressed  his  finger  on  the  man's  pulse,  was 
silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said,  kindly : 

"Perhaps  you  can  go  with  the  next  lot;  stay 
out  of  bed,  to-day;  try  to  walk  a  little  about  the 
ward;  eat  more,  and  I've  no  doubt  you  can  go 
back  soon ;  but  we  should  have  you  back  on  our 
hands,  were  we  to  send  you  to-day." 

"But  Pat,  doctor?  You  see  we're  from  the 
same  town;  he's  young, —  only  a  slip  of  a  boy  — 
and  I  promised  his  mother  I'd  see  to  him.  I  did 
let  him  get  hit,  to  be  sure,  but  it  wasn't  much  to 
signify ;  my  fever  was  a  good  bit  worse ;  we  were 
brought  here  together,  and  I'm  bound  to  leave 
when  he  leaves,  whether  I  can  shoulder  a  musket 
or  not." 

How  glad  I  was  that  it  happened  to  be  just  that 
particular  surgeon  to  whom  he  made  his  appeal ; 
for  it  must  be  admitted,  even  in  this  pattern  hos 
pital,  that  skill  and  sympathy,  power  and  patience. 


160  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

knowledge  and  kindliness,  are  not  always  combined; 
but  in  this  instance  I  was  very  sure  the  decision 
would  be  given  (whatever  it  might  be)  in  a  manner 
which  could  not  offend ;  nor  was  I  disappointed. 

"  Well,  my  friend,  if  you  had  told  me  that  you 
had  kept  Pat  from  getting  hit,  I  might  have  taken 
it  into  consideration,  whether,  for  the  sake  of  Pat's 
mother,  it  might  not  be  my  duty  to  return  a  man 
to  his  regiment  who  can't  walk  across  this  hospital; 
but  as,  by  your  own  account,  you  let  him  get  hit, 
I  think  you'll  have  to  trust  him  without  you,  and 
wait  here  till  you're  a  little  stronger;"  and  kindly 
patting  him  on  the  shoulder,  he  laughingly  turned 
off. 

Poor  Shaw  !  It  was  a  sense  of  duty  —  certainly 
not  any  feeling  of  ability  to  go — which  led  to  the 
proposition ;  for  as  the  hope  departed,  his  strength 
went  with  it.  He  attempted  to  rise  from  his  chair 
at  the  side  of  the  bed,  tottered,  and  would  have 
fallen;  but  I  saw  it,  sprang  forward,  caught  him, 
and  threw  him  backward  on  the  bed,  knowing  I 
had  not  strength  to  support  him. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  knock  you  down,  Shaw,  though 
it  looks  a  good  deal  like  it,"  said  I,  as  there  was  a 
general  laugh,  amongst  those  nearest  to  him,  who 
witnessed  the  proceeding. 

No  answer.  The  effort  had  been  too  much  for 
him — he  had  fainted.  I  called  an  orderly  to  bring 
me  water  quickly,  and  bathed  his  temples  from 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  161 

the  cologne  bottle  in  my  pocket,  but  he  did  not 
revive. 

"What's  the  fuss?"  said  one,  coming  up  behind 
me. 

11  Miss has  knocked  the  breath  out  of  Shaw, 

that's  all." 

"And  he's  knocked  the  color  out  of  her;  she's 
whiter  than  he  is." 

"  Don't  talk  ;  get  me  some  water,"  said  I,  hastily. 
"La!  miss,  you're  not  really  minding,  are  you? 
He  always  has  them  turns  when  he  tries  to  sit  up ; 
and  he's  gone  a  good  bit,  and  we  don't  mind,  he'll 
come  round ;  he's  been  fretting  at  little  Pat,  there, 
going  without  him,  and  wanted  to  go  back  to  his 
regiment  with  him.  Fine  hand  at  a  march, 
wouldn't  you  be,  eh,  Shaw  ? "  said  he,  as  the 
latter  opened  his  eyes. 

With  rough  kindness,  he  put  his  hand  under 
Shaw's  head,  raised  it,  and  held  the  water  to  his 
lips.  Shaw  roused  himself,  looked  round,  and 
seemed  gradually  recalling  what  had  occurred. 

"  Drink,  old  fellow  !  and  you'll  soon  come  round. 
It's  my  advice  to  you,  to  stay  in  your  bed  till 
you're  fit  to  get  out  of  it ;  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  make  a  lady  look  like  that." 

"  Be  quiet,  Gilman,"  said  I;  "  I'm  not  frightened 
at  all;  I've  seen  worse  sights  here  than  a  fainting 
man  j  it  was  only  the  effort  of  suddenly  throwing 
him  backward,  which  I  felt  for  the  moment." 


162  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

But  I  have  no  doubt  Oilman's  rebuke  was  of  far 
more  service  to  Shaw  than  my  ready  sympathy 
would  have  been ;  for  it  roused  him,  and  diverted 
his  mind  from  his  own  sorrows.  He  did  not  at  all 
know  what  he  had  done;  but  was  profuse  in  be 
wildered  apologies  for  some  unknown  wrong  to 
me,  which  he  seemed  to  feel  convinced  that  he 
had  committed ;  although  the  "  how,  why,  or  what" 
was  wrapped  in  mystery.  I  soon  satisfied  his  mind 
on  that  point,  and  then,  more  guardedly,  touched 
upon  "  Pat;"  promised  to  see  to  his  comfort  as  far 
as  possible ;  give  him  good  advice  as  well  as  good 
food, —  little  doubting  which  would  be  the  more 
welcome, —  and  finally,  promising  Shaw  to  return 
as  soon  as  they  were  off,  I  hurried  away,  fearing  I 
was  already  too  late  to  say  goodbye. 

These  partings  are  brighter  things  for  those  who 
go,  than  for  those  who  remain;  it  is  as  true  here, 
as  in  other  cases,  that  "  Les  peines  du  depart  sont 
pour  celui  qui  reste."  The  bustle,  the  excitement 
of  getting  off,  the  hope  of  service,  the  prospect  of 
change  of  scene,  make  the  going  something  pleas 
ant,  even  to  those  whose  patriotism  is  not  at  fever 
heat;  while,  for  those  who  remain,  the  sight  of 
others  going,  the  consciousness  of  their  own  ina 
bility  thus  more  painfully  forced  upon  their  minds, 
the  sense  of  confinement,  make  the  hours  after  one 
of  these  departures  a  somewhat  sad  affair,  and  we 
have  to  exert  all  our  powers  to  restore  cheerfulness. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  163 

A  bustling  scene  meets  me  at  the  door  of  our 
room.  A  busy  group  is  crowded  there ;  some 
kneeling  on  the  floor,  strapping  knapsacks  and 
blankets ;  some  jumping  into  the  well  known  blue 
overcoats,  which  have  enjoyed  a  profounder  rest 
than  their  owners  have  done  since  their  entrance 
into  the  hospital;  some  settling  their  caps  well 
down  over  their  eyes,  as  though  cap  and  "caput" 
were  never  again  to  part  company;  while  some 
(yes !  they  really  have,)  have  begun  to  say  goodbye. 
M.  calls  me,  and  I  hurriedly  enter. 

"They're  going;  you'll  be  too  late  to  see  them 
off." 

'•  Hurrah,  boys  !  Come  on.  We're  off.  Goodbye, 
ladies  !  We  won't  forget  you.  If  ever  the  rebs 
come  here,  send  for  us;  we'll  stand  by  you,  and 
fight  for  you,  too." 

"  Goodbye,  ma'am,  if  I  get  hit  I  hope  they'll 
send  me  here." 

';  We've  had  a  bully  time  here,  and  we're  proper 
sorry  to  go  back.  '  Salt  horse '  and  '  hard  tack ' 
will  come  pretty  hard,  after  all  your  nice  little 
messes.  Goodbye,  ladies,  and  thank  you  kindly 
for  all  you've  done  for  us." 

Such  are  the  parting  words,  rough  it  may  be, 
but  coming  from  the  heart,  and  therefore  far  more 
valuable  than  the  elegant  insincerity  of  more 
polished  partings.  But  as  character  is  shown  in 
every  action  of  life,  we  may  easily  detect  the 


164  NOTES    OP    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

difference  of  nature  even  in  their  mode  of  saying 
goodbye.  One  comes  forward  with  frank  smile, 
and  hand  extended,  his  whole  soul  beaming  from 
his  honest  eyes;  he  is  glad  to  have  known  you, 
somewhat  sorry  to  leave  you,  but  so  very  happy 
to  be  off,  that  there  is  little  room  for  any  other 
feeling;  and  you  take  leave  of  him  with  satisfac 
tion,  sure  that  his  contented  nature  will  adapt 
itself  to  whatever  circumstances  may  surround 
him.  Another  conies  up  really  sorry  to  go,  but 
thinking  it  beneath  a  soldier's  dignity  to  show 
feeling;  he  therefore  tries  to  assume  a  perfectly 
indifferent  air,  but  like  everything  assumed,  it  sits 
ill  upon  him,  and  we  all  know  that  in  his  heart 
"  sober  Sam,"  as  the  boys  nickname  him,  is  more 
sorry  to  leave  us  than  he  cares  to  acknowledge. 
A  third  shocks  our  patriotism  by  openly  declaring 
he  don't  want  to  go ;  he  don't  care  to  fight,  and 
he's  sure  he's  not  fit  for  it  either.  Ah  !  Bob,  isn't 
it  that  you  love  your  own  ease  a  little  too  well  ? 
The  field  may  not  be  quite  so  comfortable  as  it  is 
here,  but  it  is  unworthy  of  a  soldier  to  mind  such 
trifles  as  want  of  bed,  and  occasional  want  of  food. 
But  Bob  doesn't  think  so,  and  whatever  his  other 
faults  may  be,  he  is  honest  in  declaring  his  opinions. 
But  here  come  the  others,  and  we  have  but  a  few 
minutes  more. 

"  Goodbye,  Brown ;    take  care   of  yourself;  we 
shall  miss  you  when  we  want  our  errands  done." 


NOTiS     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  165 

"  Goodbye,  Williams ;  don't  forget  your  promise." 

"  Goodbye,  Simpson ;  what  shall  we  do  without 
you  for  a  wardmaster  ?  " 

"  Goodbye,  John;  come  back  with  shoulder-straps, 
and  God  bless  you  !" 

That  bright  young  face  looks  still  brighter,  as  he 

says,  "  Why,  Miss ,  that's  what  they  all  say  to 

me  j  I've  been  through  the  wards  bidding  the  boys 
goodbye,  and  they  all  say  '  God  bless  you,  John  !' 
Why  do  they  say  that  to  me  ?" 

I  could  have  told  him  without  much  difficulty 
why  that  genial,  sunny  nature,  so  full  of  bravery 
and  beauty,  of  life  and  love,  had  won  its  way  to  the 
hearts  of  "the  boys,"  and  called  forth  that  warm 
"  God  bless  you."  The  Prayer  from  so  many  hearts 
seems  to  have  won  its  answer;  God  has  blessed 
him  and  guarded  him  from  harm.  Nobly  has  he 
fought,  and  the  shoulder-straps  are  won.  Promo 
tion  on  the  field  "  for  distinguished  services,"  has 
been  gained;  and  we  now  have  the  pleasure  of 
directing  our  quondam  "  Private "  John's  letters, 
to  "  Captain  "  John,  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac. 
But  as  he  is  pressed  on  in  the  crowd,  before  I  can 
answer  his  question,  I  notice  a  pale,  quiet  youth, 
always  retiring  and  gentle,  standing  at  my  side 
with  a  hesitating  air. 

"  Well,  George,  you're  off  too ;  I  won't  forget 
you,  and  you  mustn't  forget  me." 

He  still  stands,  and  still  hesitates,  saying  nothing. 


166  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    L-IFE. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  before  you  go,  or 
perhaps  after  ?  Can  I  help  you  ?  tell  me." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  you  can  help  me.  If  you  would 
just  let  me  shake  hands  with  you,  I  think  it  would 
help  me  on  the  battle-field,  to  remember  it.  I  saw 
the  others  come  up,  but  somehow  I  didn't  dare  to, 
and  I  was  so  afraid  I  w^ould  have  to  go  without." 

Poor  George !  Not  many  of  the  men  are  so 
troubled  with  modesty.  Such  a  little  boon  to  be 
asked  for  so  earnestly !  one,  too,  which  half  the 
men  claim  as  a  right  in  parting. 

"  You  didn't  think,  George,  after  all  our  talks,  I 
could  have  let  you  go  without  shaking  hands  with 
you,  did  you  ?  No,  my  boy,"  said  I,  holding  out 
my  hand;  "  but  I  will  do  what  will  be  more  likely 
to  help  you  on  the  battle-field,  pray  for  you;  and 
now,  goodbye." 

He  grasped  my  hand,  and  as  he  held  it,  a  hot 
tear  fell  on  it;  he  seemed  shocked,  dropped  it,  and 
rushed  from  the  room  into  the  crowd  waiting  at 
the  door  to  start.  The  signal  sounded,  and  they 
were  gone. 

"God  go  with  them!"  said  an  earnest  voice  at 
my  side. 

God  will  go  with  them  !     Doubt  it  not, 

Ye,  whose  fond,  aching  hearts 
Fear  that  your  treasures  are  less  safe, 

Because  from  you  apart! 
Love,  human  love,  is  powerless, 

From  Death  or  harm  to  shield  ; 
Our  very  lives,  for  theirs  laid  down, 

Could  no  protection  yield. 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  167 

God  will  go  with  them  !     Rest  on  that, 

When  partings  make  Life  dark ; 
He  guideth  every  bullet's  course, 

To  hit  or  miss  its  mark. 
Then  trust  them  amid  shot  and  shell, 

To  His  unfailing  care; 
And  bow,  submissive  hearts,  howe'er 

The  answer  comes  to  Prayer. 


168  NOTES    OP    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 


A   VISIT   TO   THE   WAKDS. 

U.  S.  A.  HOSPITAL. 

AND  so  you  really  wish,  dear  C.,  to  take  that 
long-promised  trip  through  the  wards  of  our  hos 
pital  ?  Most  happy  shall  I  be  to  escort  you ;  and 
I  promise,  ere  we  start,  to  use  every  endeavor  to 
prevent  you  from  going  any  deeper  than  you  wish 
into  the  "  horrors  of  hospital  life."  You  shall  not 
see  an  open  wound  if  I  can  help  it ; — do  not  imagine 
that  I  have  forgotten  the  effect  upon  you  of  the 
sight  of  that  man's  arm  the  last  time  that  you 
were  here ;  and  yet  it  was  your  own  fault,  for  it 
was  your  expression  of  interest  in  him  and  his 
wound  which  led  to  the  display;  and  we,  hardened 
creatures  that  we  have  become,  were  not  aware  of 
your  feelings  till  the  harm  was  done.  But  put 
yourself  under  my  guidance  to-day,  and  I  will 
pick  out  only  the  choice  specimens.  Yet  no  !  I 
cannot  do  that  exactly,  for,  in  answer  to  a  charge 
brought  against  me  here  a  few  days  since,  I  have 
promised  to  select  the  worst  cases  —  the  morally 
worst  cases,  I  mean, —  in  the  hospital,  to  show  my 
friends.  What  was  the  charge  ?  you  ask.  Nothing 
very  heinous,  to  be  sure.  A  friend,  to  whom  I  have 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  169 

very  often  talked  of  the  hospital  and  its  inmates, 
said  to  one  of  our  medical  cadets,  as  we  walked 
through  the  wards : 

"  Tell  me,  doctor,  is  a  hospital  really  the  paradise 
Miss  —  -  represents  it  ?  Her  soldiers  are  all  per 
fectionists;  they  never  quarrel,  they  never  swear, 
they  never  drink,  they  never  gamble;  and  more 
than  this,  they  never  get  well;  they  are  sure  to 
die  in  some  romantic  way,  with  an  interesting 
wife,  mother,  or  sister,  in  the  distance." 

My  answer,  of  course,  was  a  laugh,  trusting  to 
my  friend,  the  cadet,  to  justify  me;  but  here  I 
was  mistaken.  His  answer  was  a  mere  empty 
word  of  compliment,  as  to  what  the  ladies  made 
the  hospital,  etc.,  leaving  the  main  question  un 
touched.  I  therefore  was  compelled  to  take  up 
my  own  defence,  and  assure  her  that  the  fact  of 
my  having  preferred  to  dwell  upon  the  interesting 
cases,  was  no  proof  that  the  hospital  contained  no 
others;  that  we  all  knew  that  either  in  or  out  of 
a  hospital,  our  strongest  feelings  were  called  forth 
by  extreme  illness  and  danger. 

"  Like  a  bruised  leaf,  at  touch  of  Fear, 
Its  hidden  fragrance  Love  gives  out." 

More  than  this,  that  here,  as  elsewhere,  people 
ceased  to  be  interesting  when  they  recovered ; 
therefore,  most  naturally,  I  had  not  dwelt  much 
upon  such  cases  as  had  returned,  cured,  to  their 
regiments.  I  further  assured  her  that  I  had  heard 
15 


170  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

men  both  quarrel  and  swear;  had  seen  them  both 
drink  and  gamble  within  these  walls;  and  that,  at 
the  very  moment  we  were  speaking,  a  special  friend 
of  mine — acknowledged  to  be  the  worst  man  in  the 
hospital — was  in  the  guard-house ;  a  man  who  pro 
bably  interested  me  more  deeply  and  painfully  than 
any  one  here;  and  whose  story,  could  I  tell  it,  might 
thrill  her  to  her  soul's  depths ;  but  in  this  case  also, 
there  was  an  "  interesting  mother  in  the  distance/' 
whose  pale,  patient,  long-suffering  face,  mutely 
appealing  to  me  from  her  sweet  photograph,  must 
seal  my  lips  forever  upon  that  sad  subject.  Because 
I  had  told  her  that  oaths  were  checked  in  our 
presence,  did  it  follow,  I  asked  her,  that  they  were 
never  uttered  in  our  absence  ?  Because  I  had  said, 
and  most  truly,  that  in  my  whole  term  of  service 
I  had  never  heard  a  rude  word,  or  seen  an  act  of 
discourtesy,  either  to  myself  or  any  of  the  lady 
visitors,  did  it  follow  that  such  words  or  acts  never 
passed  between  themselves  ?  Because  I  had  shrunk 
from  the  painful  theme  of  the  guard-house  and  its 
inmates,  did  it  follow  that  it  was  untenanted  ?  And 
finally,  triumphantly  made  her  confess  that,  like  too 
many  amongst  us,  she  had  formed  her  conclusions 
on  insufficient  data,  promising,  as  a  reward  for  her 
generosity  in  owning  herself  routed,  that  hence 
forth  I  would  reserve  the  pleasant  cases  for  myself, 
and  pick  out  the  worst  ones  for  my  friends,  as  they 
seemed  to  prefer  them.  I  tell  you  this,  that 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  171 

you  may  understand  why  I  take  you,  first  of  all, 
to  the  Grossest  man  here,  in  preference  to  the  most 
attractive  and  gentle.  You  do  not  care  to  see  him, 
you  say.  Oh  !  yes.  For  the  sake  of  rny  promise 
I  must  show  him  to  you,  and  after  that  we  can 
look  at  pleasanter  specimens.  He  will  not  hurt 
you;  it  is  only  that  nothing  that  can  be  done  for 
him  ever  suits  him,  unless  done  by  the  ladies;  for 
he  is  no  exception  to  my  rule,  and  is  always  polite 
to  the  ladies.  Amongst  ourselves  we  call  him  "The 
Grumbler,"  so  entirely  that  we  sometimes  forget 
his  real  name.  I  was  amused,  the  other  day,  to 
hear  M.  say,  as  she  designated  the  different  saucers 
of  corn-starch  which  she  was  giving  to  one  of  the 
orderlies,  "  You'll  remember,  now,  that  this  is  for 
Davis,  that  for  Strickland,  that  for  Jones,  and  this 
for  '  the  Grumbler.'  " 

"  For  who,  ma'am,  this  last  one,  did  you  say?" 

"  The  Grumbler,"  repeated  M.  with  perfect  un 
consciousness,  as  she  continued  to  hunt  spoons 
for  the  different  saucers. 

I  quietly  enjoyed  the  bewilderment  of  the 
orderly,  but  said  nothing  to  enlighten  him. 

"  That's  what  a  good  many  of  them  are,  ma'am, 
when  I  goes  back  without  enough  for  all,  but  I 
don't  know  which  one  you  mean  now." 

M.,  thus  recalled  to  herself,  laughingly  explained; 
and  the  idea  that  such  was  the  ladies'  name  for  him, 
seemed  to  afford  special  delight  to  the  poor  orderly, 


172  NOTES     OP    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

who  has  doubtless  been  frequently  the  victim  of 
his  wrath. 

"  You've  hit  it  this  time,  ladies;  he  does  nothing 
but  grumble  from  morning  till  night ;  nothing  that 
I  can  do  will  suit,  though  I've  tried  till  I  am  tired, 
to  please  him." 

Whether  he  has  confided  to  him  our  nattering 
name  for  him  or  not,  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to 
discover,  but  think  it  not  at  all  unlikely.  As  we 
pass  along  to  his  bed,  just  notice  the  tables  of  the 
men,  and  see  how  carefully  they  have  the  "  Lares 
and  Penates"  treasured  up  on  them.  Pictures 
of  wife,  mother,  and  sister,  little  remembrances 
carefully  preserved ;  the  Bible, — often  the  parting 
gift  —  and  once  or  twice  a  little  toy,  which  seemed 
to  keep  home  fresh  in  the  father's  heart;  but  one 
thing  has  often  struck  me  with  surprise;  these  all, 
as  you  may  see,  lie  open  on  the  table,  but  you  will 
never  see  the  bride  elect  —  the  promised  one  —  so 
exposed;  her  memory  and  her  face  are  as  carefully 
guarded  as  though  she  were  in  danger  of  being 
captured  and  carried  off  by  storm.  I  have  seen 
quite  as  much  reserve  and  delicacy  of  feeling  upon 
this  point,  as  I  have  ever  met  with  in  higher  circles. 
The  story  comes  at  last;  but  it  is  often  after  months 
of  watching  and  nursing,  when  you  fancy  every 
detail  of  home  has  been  given  over  and  over  again, 
—  it  comes  in  bashful  words  and  with  heightened 
color,  "  I  thought  I'd  like  you  to  know;"  or,  "  You 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  173 

won't  mention,  will  you  ?  But" — and  then  comes 
confession.  Or  again,  a  sudden  burst  of  gratitude 
seems  to  find  vent  in  showing  you  that  precious 
one,  so  carefully  hidden  all  this  long  time ;  and  a 
photograph  is  mutely  placed  in  your  hands,  and 
of  course  no  woman  ever  yet  said  to  any  picture 
so  given,  "  Who  is  this?"  Ah!  well.  I  fear  you 
are  tired,  long  ere  this,  of  my  earnest  desire  to 
prove  that  the  human  heart  is  the  same  all  the 
world  over,  prince  or  peasant,  baron  or  beggar, 
senator  or  serf;  so  let  us  walk  on,  and  speak  to 
our  cross  friend. 

There  he  sits,  on  that  bed  opposite  to  us,  in  the 
red  shirt,  with  his  arm  in  the  sling;  that's  a  bad 
wound,  and  I  often  excuse  his  irritability,  because 
he  is  suffering  so  much  with  it,  and  I  know  that 
the  doctor  thinks  amputation  may  be  necessary. 
He  is  a  good-looking  man,  if  he  would  only  smile 
and  look  good-natured,  instead  of  frowning  and 
scolding  all  the  time.  There  comes  his  dinner; 
now  listen,  but  don't  go  up  to  him,  just  yet;  if 
he  sees  the  ladies,  he  Avon't  express  his  views  so 
plainly. 

Grumbler,  loquitur.  "  Call  that  my  dinner  ? 
Pitch  it  out,  I  say,  pitch  it  out,  or  I'll  pitch  you 
out !  Didn't  I  tell  you  the  next  time  you  brought 
me  that  greasy  stuff  you  call  soup,  I'd  report  you  ? 
say,  didn't  I?" 

Down-trodden  orderly,  rising  at  last.  <:  Pitch  it 
15* 


174  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

out  yourself !  The  other  boys  can  eat  it;  I  don't 
see  why  you're  so  mighty  nice.'7 

"  Mighty  nice,  indeed  !  1  tell  you  it's  grub  not 
fit  for  an  almshouse,  that's  what  it  is." 

Let  us  go  up  and  speak  to  him;  perhaps  the 
sight  of  the  ladies  may  allay  his  wrath. 

"What's  the  matter,  George?  what  are  you 
speaking  so  violently  about?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am;  I  didn't  know  you 
were  there." 

"  But  the  whole  hospital  might  have  heard  you; 
and  I  just  want  to  know,  for  curiosity,  whether 
you  really  referred  to  that  chicken  soup,  when  you 
said  it  was  "grub  fit  for  an  almhouse?"  because, 
if  you  did,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  have  just 
finished  feeding  a  very  sick  man  with  it,  and  that, 
as  I  tasted  it  before  giving  it  to  him,  I  thought 
how  nicely  it  was  made ;  and  that,  tired  as  I  was, 
I  should  not  object  to  have  a  little  ordered  for 
me." 

"  It's  that  coat  of  grease  on  the  top,  ma'am,  that 
1  can't  stand;  it  makes  me  sick,  and  I've  told  him 
over  and  over  not  to  come  near  me  with  it,  big  fool 
that  he  is." 

"  But,  George,  it's  very  easy  to  remove  that;  it's 
been  standing,  that's  all;  look  here,  just  take  your 
spoon,  and  skim  it  off;  there,  see  how  nicely  it 
looks  below.  Do  you  know  I  think  you're  some 
thing  like  that  soup  yourself,  crusty  and  disagree- 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  175 

able  on  the  surface,  but  skim  that  off,  go  deeper, 
and  I  don't  believe  you're  such  a  bad  fellow,  at 
heart,  cross  as  you  seem!" 

"Why,  do  I  seem  cross,  Miss  ?  I  don't 

mean  to  be  so,  only  they  never  bring  me  what 
I  want ;  and  this  plaguey  arm  keeps  aching  so  all 
the  time." 

"  That's  just  what  I  thought;  and  I  am  sure  that 
if  we  could  only  get  that  arm  better,  you  would  be 
a  different  man.  I  am  sure  you  suffer  with  it  a 
great  deal.  Try  and  take  this  nice  corn-starch, 
maybe  you'll  like  it  better  than  the  soup." 

"That!  Old  scorched  stuff!  You  won't  catch 
rne  taking  that  in  a  hurry,  I  guess." 

"Scorched?     Why,  George,  it  isn't  scorched." 

"  Not  scorched,  ma'am  ?  No  milk,  pretended  to 
be  boiled,  ever  came  out  of  that  kitchen  yet,  that 
wasn't  scorched." 

"  That,  I  happen  to  know,  is  not  so ;  but  just  tell 
me  one  thing, — have  you  tasted  it?" 

"  Not  I,  and  I  don't  mean  to ;  I  know  it's  bad, 
without  tasting  it." 

"  Thank  you,  George,  for  your  gratitude.  We 
made  that  this  morning,  with  our  own  hands,  with 
particular  care,  and  put  the  flavoring  in  it  you  said 
you  liked  the  other  day;  it  has  never  been  near 
the  kitchen,  and  I  can  answer  for  it's  not  being 
scorched." 

"  You  made  it,  ma'am  ?     The  ladies?     Then  it's 


176  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

the  kind  I  like.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Billy  brought 
it  in  with  the  dinner,  and  I  thought  he  got  it  out 
of  the  kitchen." 

"  We  sent  it  to  you  by  Billy;  but,  if  it  had  come 
from  the  kitchen,  wouldn't  it  have  been  as  well  to 
try  it,  before  condemning  it  so  strongly  ?  I  feel 
much  mortified  that  this  lady,  who  has  come  to 
see  the  hospital,  where  we  try  so  hard  to  have  the 
food  nicely  prepared,  and  delicacies  provided  for 
the  men,  can  go  home  and  tell  that  she  herself 
heard  one  of  them  say,  when  his  dinner  was 
brought  to  him,  '  Pitch  it  out/  for  it  was  '  grub 
not  fit  for  an  almshouse.'  You  ought  to  be  careful 
what  you  say,  George,  for  perhaps  you  do  not 
know  what  is  the  fact,  that  the  testimony  of  the 
men,  with  regard  to  these  things,  outweighs  ten 
fold  all  that  the  surgeons  or  the  ladies  can  say.  I 
constantly  hear  the  remark,  '  Oh  !  yes.  Of  course 
it  is  to  the  interest  of  the  surgeons  to  represent 
that  everything  is  as  it  should  be ;  the  ladies  are 
proud  of  their  hospital,  and  of  course  praise  it; 
but  ask  the  men, —  they  are  the  ones  to  tell  the 
truth  about  it — ask  them  if  they  are  comfortable, 
and  get  what  they  want;  if  they  are  satisfied,  be 
sure  it  is  all  right,  and  vice  versa/  Now,  this  lady 
has  come  in,  and  you  know  what  she  has  heard,  as 
the  testimony  of  the  only  man  she  has  yet  listened 
to.  Is  this  quite  fair,  George?" 

"  Oh  !  Miss  ,  I'm  very  sorry,  indeed  I  am. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  177 

I  didn't  mean  it,  you  know  I  didn't;  only  this 
plaguey  arm,  as  I  tell  you,  keeps  me  snappish- 
like." 

"  "Well,  never  mind,  I  don't  think  you've  done 
much  harm  this  time;  this  lady  shall  taste  both 
soup  and  corn-starch,  if  she  will,  and  then  she 
can  bear  her  own  testimony  that  the  one  is  not 
greasy,  nor  the  other  scorched.  Only  grumble  a 
little  less  next  time,  and  we  will  forgive  you  now. 
But  come,  dear  C.,  we  are  wasting  too  much  time 
on  one  case,  and  there  are  so  many  here  that  I 
want  you  to  see." 

Ah  !  here  comes  one  of  our  finest  specimens,  a 
whole-souled,  true-hearted  man ;  one  whom  you 
may  safely  trust,  and  never  fear  that  you  will 
find  your  confidence  misplaced,  which,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  is  not  always  the  case.  You  shake  your 
head,  and  mean  by  that,  I  suppose,  that  a  man 
looking  as  well  as  he  does,  certainly  might  go  back 
to  his  regiment.  I  grant  you  that  he  looks  per 
fectly  well,  but  let  me  beg  you  not  always  to  be 
guided  by  appearances  here,  any  more  than  else 
where.  Some  of  those  we  have  supposed  best 
fitted  for  service,  were  really  the  least  able  to 
bear  exertion.  I  remember  a  case  last  winter, 
which  taught  me  a  lesson  on  that  point.  Corning, 
one  of  our  men,  who  w^as  afterwards  made  ward- 
master,  and  whom  I  have  often  mentioned  to 
yon  as  one  of  my  favorites,  is  the  one  I  have  in 


178  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

my  mind.  When  he  first  came  to  us,  he  was 
suffering  from  a  severe  kick  from  a  horse,  which 
had  broken  several  ribs ;  but  after  a  few  months 
he  appeared  so  perfectly  well,  that  we  used  very 
frequently  to  take  the  liberty  of  judging,  and 
wronder  why  he  was  not  returned  to  his  regiment. 

One  afternoon,  during  a  violent  snow-storm,  he 
undertook  to  join  one  or  two  of  the  men  in  a 
game  of  snow-balls;  that  evening,  when  we  were 
preparing  the  suppers  for  the  sick  men,  Corning 
failed  to  appear  as  usual  for  his  ward,  and  we 
found  that  the  exertion  of  the  afternoon  had  been 
quite  too  much  for  him;  he  was  in  bed,  and  for 
weeks  was  not  himself  again.  This  showed  me 
how  thoroughly  unfit  for  any  but  the  lightest  duty 
a  man  might  be,  and  yet  appear — as  our  friend  here 
does — in  good  health.  "  Our  Charlie,"  as  the  men 
call  him,  is  a  general  favorite ;  he  was  one  of  our 
orderlies,  and  has  just  been  made  wrardmaster,  and 
has  proved  very  popular  in  that  capacity.  He  has 
one  of  those  sunny,  genial  natures  which  create  an 
atmosphere  of  their  own,  and  brighten  every  one 
who  may  chance  to  come  within  the  sphere  of  their 
influence.  Poor  fellowr !  he  was  giving  me  an 
account,  yesterday,  of  rather  an  unfortunate  pic 
nic  which  he  was  at  the  day  before.  A  party  of 
the  men  had  obtained  passes  to  go  upon  one  of 
those  excursions  which  are  so  popular  here  in 
summer;  he  had  foolishly  taken  with  him  his 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  179 

pocket-book,  containing  thirty  dollars  ("John 
Greenback,"  as  they  irreverently  term  the  pay 
master,  having  paid  the  hospital  a  visit  the  day 
before),  which  in  a  very  short  time  he  found  he 
had  lost.  He  had  been  sitting  on  the  grass,  with 
a  set  of  men  all  of  whom  were  known  to  him 
except  one,  whose  appearance  he  had  not  liked 
when  he  joined  the  party;  this  man,  who  had 
just  left  them  hurriedly,  he  felt  convinced  had 
taken  it.  On  giving  notice  to  the  police,  he  was 
advised  to  say  nothing,  but  keep  a  close  watch, 
and  he  would  probably  be  able  to  detect  him. 
"  It  wasn't  the  money  I  cared  for,  a  bit,  Miss 
— ,"  said  poor  Charlie,  in  telling  me  of  it,  "  but 
the  pocket-book  had  that  paper  in  it,  and  you  know 
that  was  more  to  me  than  all  in  Uncle  Sam's 
treasury." 

I  well  knew  what  "that  paper"  meant,  for  it 
was  through  it  that  we  first  found  out  what  a  true, 
loving  heart  beat  in  the  breast  of  our  bright,  frank, 
off-hand  Charlie.  His  brother,  also  in  the  army, 
had  been  wounded,  brought  here  to  another  hos 
pital,  and  died  there  while  Charlie  was  here,  without 
his  knowing  it.  With  that  thoughtful  kindness 
which  has  brought  comfort  to  many  an  aching 
heart  during  this  sad  war,  one  of  the  ladies  pre 
served  a  lock  of .  his  hair  for  his  family ;  and 
hearing,  after  all  was  over,  that  Charlie  was  here, 
brought  it  to  him,  and  gave  him  all  the  particulars 


180  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

of  his  brother's  death.  'No  one,  who  had  once 
heard  Charlie  give  that  account,  could  ever  forget 
it;  the  deep,  bitter  sorrow,  which  refused  to  be 
comforted;  the  unavailing  regret  —  almost  self- 
reproach — with  which  he  wound  up,  "And  to  think 
I  was  so  near,  and  never  went  to  him!" — this 
seemed  to  be  more  than  he  could  bear. 

We  always  found  ourselves  more  ready  to  sym 
pathize  with  him  in  his  grief,  because  he  entered 
into  every  one  else's  interests  so  warmly,  whether 
of  joy  or  sorrow.  "  That  paper,"  therefore,  I  knew 
contained  this  precious  lock  of  hair;  which,  he 
told  me  only  a  few  da}~s  ago,  lie  wanted  to  send 
to  his  mother, — "  all  she  can  ever  have  of  her 
boy"-— and  had  delayed  doing  so,  only  because 
he  wished  to  give  it  to  the  chaplain  to  send  for 
him.  It  needed  no  wrords  of  his,  to  tell  me  what 
a  loss  this  was  to  him.  Later  in  the  day,  however, 
as  he  was  walking  through  the  grounds,  he  saw 
the  man  whom  he  had  suspected,  seated  under  a 
tree  with  a  woman, — who  afterwards  proved  to  be 
his  sister,  and  to  whom,  they  found,  he  had  given 
one-half  of  the  money.  Notice  was  given  at  once 
to  the  police,  who  immediately  arrested  both  of 
them.  On  being  detected,  the  man  instantly  put 
a  roll  of  notes  into  his  mouth,  and  tried  to  cheAv 
them  up;  this  was  speedily  prevented  by  the 
policeman,  who  throttled  him  and  compelled  him 
to  disgorge  them.  "  But,"  said  Charlie,  "  I  begged 


NOTES    OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  181 

him  not  to  choke  him,  as  I  wanted  to  hear  where 
the  pocket-hook  was,  much  more  than  to  get  the 
money."  This,  however,  the  man  obstinately  re 
fused  to  return,  nor  could  it  be  found  upon  him 
after  the  strictest  search.  "After  telling  him  what 
was  in  it,  too,"  continued  Charlie,  "  after  begging 
and  beseeching  him  by  the  love  of  his  own  mother, 
just  to  give  me  the  pocket-book,  and  keep  the 
money  (evidently,  from  what  he  told  me,  to  the 
infinite  disgust  of  the  policeman),  could  you  be 
lieve  me,  that  he  wouldn't  listen  to  me,  but  walked 
on,  just  as  if  he  didn't  hear  me?  As  we  went 
along,  I  saw  him  suddenly  pitch  something  over 
a  fence  at  his  side ;  a  thought  darted  into  my  mind ; 
over  that  fence  I  dashed,  and  sure  enough,  down 
there  in  the  grass,  was  my  little  white  paper;  and 
now  they  may  keep  my  money,  and  welcome."  It 
seemed  to  perplex  him  terribly,  w^here  the  paper 
could  have  been  concealed  during  the  searchj  or 
how  the  man  happened  to  have  it  out  of  the  pocket- 
book  j  but  such  was  the  fact,  just  as  he  related  it. 
He  told  me  that  the  police  had  been  at  the  hospital, 
that  day,  bringing  him  fifteen  dollars, — half  of  his 
money  —  which  the  sister  had  confessed  that  her 
brother  had  given  to  her  at  the  time,  and  requiring 
him  to  go  and  give  evidence  against  the  man,  which 
he  was  most  unwilling  to  do,  having,  as  he  said, 
"  secured  all  that  he  cared  for." 

But  while  I  am  making  a  long  story  of  Charlie's 
16 


182  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

loss,  you  are  looking  eagerly  at  that  bed  in  the 
corner;  that  poor  fellow,  who  is  so  pale  and  lan 
guid,  is  from  Wisconsin;  he  has  injured  his  spine, 
and  cannot  sit  up  for  more  than  a  few  moments  at 
a  time.  He  is  one  of  the  mournful  ones,  and  our 
most  earnest  attempts  to  cheer  him  seldom  produce 
more  than  a  feehle  smile.  Nothing  could  convince 
you  more  of  the  blessing  of  buoyancy  of  disposition 
and  a  sanguine  temperament,  than  a  short  time 
passed  in  one  of  these  hospitals ;  you  see  at  once 
that  it  carries  a  man  more  than  half  the  way 
towards  cure.  But  nothing  we  can  do  will  brighten 
poor  Granger;  he  seems  gentle  and  grateful,  but 
persistently  depressed,  and  that  makes  us  feel  much 
discouraged  about  him.  You  are  looking  at  the 
gentleman  sitting  at  his  side;  yes,  it  is,  as  you 

think,  Mr.  ,  one   of    our   most   valuable   aid? 

here;  he  has,  for  many  months,  been  assisting  th» 
chaplain  in  visiting,  reading,  writing  for,  and  talk 
ing  to  the  men,  and  most  grateful  do  we  all  feel  to 
him  for  his  services  here.  No  sun  too  hot,  no  air 
too  heavy,  through  this  whole  summer,  to  find  him 
at  his  post;  and  the  men  repay  his  kindness  with 
the  warmest  attachment. 

Look  at  this  man  just  coming  in  at  the  door;  it 
is  poor  Cuthbert;  he  does  not  belong  in  this  ward, 
but  he  wanders  where  he  likes.  His  is  a  sad  case. 
A  bullet  struck  him  on  the  head,  injuring  his  brain; 
at  times  he  is  perfectly  himself,  but  usually  his 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  183 

mind  seems  quite  gone ;  it  is  truly  pitiable  to  see 
him.  His  wife  and  little  children  are  here  in  the 
city;  she  tells  us  that  he  was  a  most  industrious, 
faithful  workman,  before  he  enlisted;  honest  and 
sober,  and  the  kindest  husband.  We  are  very  sure 
of  his  unselfishness,  for  no  matter  what  we  brought 
him  to  take,  whilst  he  was  confined  to  bed,  his 
answer  was  always  the  same,  "  Give  it  to  Bob;" 
or  "  Bob's  wounded,  give  it  to  him."  He  rejected 
everything  for  himself  with  these  words,  fancying 
himself  still  on  the  field  with  his  friend.  We  found, 
to  our  surprise,  that  "Bob"  was  none  other  than 

young  Lieutenant ,  well  known  here,  whom  he 

had  been  nursing  and  watching  most  tenderly  till 
he  had  received  his  own  wound.  The  news  of 
"Bob's"  death,  which  reached  us  soon  after  we 
arrived,  would  doubtless  have  been  a  great  sorrow 
to  him,  but  the  poor  fellow  never  could  understand 
it;  and  we  begged  the  men  to  say  nothing  about 
it,  during  his  sane  days,  as  we  all  wished  him  spared 
this  additional  suffering.  He  will  get  his  discharge 
soon,  but  his  poor  wife  will  now  have  to  support 
him,  as  well  as  her  children.  Surely  a  Soldier's 
Home,  for  those  disabled  by  this  war,  is  one  of  the 
charities  most  imperatively  demanded  at  present. 
I  know  that  efforts  are  even  now  on  foot  to  obtain 
it,  but  it  is  a  thing  which  should,  which  must,  be 
pressed.  Why  pause  till  we  see  it  accomplished, 
and  those  suffering  and  thrown  out  of  employment 


184  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

for  life,  provided  with  a  home  ?  Why  rest  till  we 
have  actually  placed  within  its  walls  the  army  who 
have  returned — many  of  them  in  the  prime  of  life 
—  maimed  and  mutilated,  to  our  midst  —  cut  off 
from  all  possibility  of  advancement  for  the  rest 
of  life  —  helpless,  and  too  often  hopeless?  Shall 
we  not  show  them  that  we  can  at  least  appreciate 
all  that  they  have  done  for  us  ? — that  we  can,  and 
will  gladly  deny  self,  to  give  to  them  the  home 
which  their  sufferings  and  self-sacrifice  have  so 
deservedly  won  ?  We  need  but  the  earnest  pur 
pose  to  secure  its  fulfilment,  and  I  cannot  feel  that 
Philadelphia  will  ever  rest  till  she  has  added  to  her 
generous  labors  in  sending  men  forth,  a  liberal 
provision  for  the  comfort  and  maintenance  of  the 
disabled,  on  their  return.* 

Let  us  pass  down  on  this  side,  as  we  go  out  of 
the  ward.  I  want  you  to  look  at  that  man's  eye, 
it  is  so  full  of  bright,  keen  intelligence  and  quick 
wit.  I  wish  that  we  had  time  to  talk  with  him ; 
but  it  is  such  a  difficult  matter  to  break  off,  that, 
without  an  abundance  of  time,  I  always  hesitate  to 
begin.  The  other  morning  I  happened  to  enter  the 
ward  just  as  inspection  was  over;  (which,  you 
know,  means  the  time  at  which  the  surgeon  in 
charge  makes  his  rounds  attended  by  the  surgeons 
of  each  ward;)  this  man  beckoned  me  to  his  bedside. 

*  This  was,  of  course,  written  before  the  establishment  of  the 
"Soldiers'  Home,"  at  the  corner  of  Crown  and  Kace  streets. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  185 

"  He's  a  bully  man,  that  head  one,  ain't  he  ?" 

Criticism  from  the  men  upon  any  of  the  officers 
of  the  hospital,  be  it  favorable  or  unfavorable,  is  a 
thing  which  we  strictly  discountenance  at  all  times; 

and  I  therefore  said, — assuming,  or,  as says,  I 

should  always  say,  trying  to  assume,  an  air  of  dig 
nity— 

"  You  should  not  speak  so  of  the  surgeon  in 
charge,  it  is  disrespectful ;  you  must  remember 
that  he  is  as  much  your  superior  officer,  for  the 
time,  as  the  colonel  of  your  regiment." 

"  Faith  !  then  there's  an  act  of  disrespect  I'll 
never  pay  my  colonel.  He's  gone  to  his  account, 
so  we'll  say  no  more ;  but  not  a  boy  of  that  regi 
ment  will  ever " 

This  I  could  not  permit ;  so  I  turned  at  once  to 
leave  him,  finding  my  moral  lessons  turned  against 
myself,  and  that  "  hsec  fabula"  didn't  "docet"  the 
respect  I  intended. 

"  Oh !  please,  miss !  don't  go — don't  be  offended !  I 
didn't  mean  it,  indeed;  I  may  be  rough,  but  I  mean 
no  offence;  I  want  to  tell  you  why  I  called  him 
'bully;'  just  let  me,  even  if  you  don't  like  him." 

"  It  isn't  that  1  don't  like  him,"  I  endeavored  to 
explain,  "but  that  I  think  you  have  no  right  to 
criticise  those  above  you.  Were  I  to  allow  that,  I 
might,  on  the  same  principle,  allow  you  to  find  fault 
with  one  of  the  other  officers;  I  never  meant  that  you 
should  not  be  grateful  for  being  so  well  cared  for." 
16* 


186  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

"That's  just  where  it  is,  miss;  it  don't  matter 
the  being  cared  for;  they  cared  for  me  in  Wash 
ington  ;  but  it's  the  way  the  caring's  done.  I'll 
just  tell  you  how  it  is,  in  this  war.  We're  all  a 
set  of  ten-pins,  stood  up  to  have  balls  sent  at  us ; 
along  they  come,  and  down  we  go.  No  matter, 
get  another  set;  but  still,  it  may  save  Uncle  Sam 
to  mend  the  broken  ones,  and  use  them  again;  so 
the  menders  come  along,  pick  you  up,  feel  you  all 
ovbr,  and  see  if  you're  worth  mending;  if  so,  you're 
patched  up,  and  stood  in  your  place  again.  I've 
seen  enough  of  it ;  but  here  comes  this  fellow  —  I 
beg  your  pardon,  miss,  it's  surgeon  in  charge  I'm 
thinking  you  like  him  called  —  and  he  don't  say 
much  different  from  other  menders;  but  it's  all  in 
his  eye  —  it  says  a  lot  more  nor  his  tongue  —  it 
says,  '  You're  flesh  and  blood,  you  are,  poor  fellow  ! 
and  I'm  sorry  to  see  you  twisting  about  with  pain 
like  that,  and  it's  all  a  bad  business,  this  same,  so 
it  is/  Do  you  think  I  care  what  a  man's  tongue 
says,  when  his  eye  says  that  ?  I  tell  you,  I  feel 
better  the  whole  day  for  one  look  like  that.  It's 
my  belief  that  all  the  talk  that's  right  from  the 
heart  comes  out  of  the  eye,  and  when  men  want 
to  make  you  believe  things  not  just  so,  it's  their 
tongue  they  use." 

I  did  not  suggest  that  it  had  been  remarked,  on 
the  one  hand,  that  "  Language  was  given  to  con 
ceal  a  man's  thoughts;"  or,  on  the  other,  that 


NOTES    OP    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  187 

u  Countenance  and  gesture  are  vehicles  of  thought, 
but  their  capacity  and  scope  are  limited/'  as  I  was 
quite  sure  that  he  was  entirely  innocent  of  any 
plagiarism,  either  of  ideas  or  their  expression. 
But  what  a  lesson  in  his  words  for  us  all !  Here 
is  a  man  confined  to  his  bed,  suffering  acutely,  who 
tells  me  that  he  feels  better  for  a  whole  day  —  for 
what  F  For  some  kind  act  to  relieve  that  suffering? 
— some  pleasant  look,  or  sprightly  game  to  beguile 
his  tedious  hours  ? — or  for 

"  Kind  words,  so  easy  to  speak, 
But  whose  echo  is  endless  ?" 

For  none  of  these;  but  merely  for  a  look — a  glance 
of  sympathy  !  Could  we  realize  the  priceless  value 
of  such  seeming  trifles,  surely  in  our  intercourse 
with  our  fellow-men,  we  should  be  more  on  the 
watch  to  practice  them  —  more  prompt  in  their 
exercise.  It  is  not  that  feeling  is  wanting,  in  many 
cases,  but  perception, — the  perception  of  the  mode 
in  which  we  act  upon  others ;  but  we  must  beware 
of  forgetting  our  responsibility  on  this  most  im 
portant  point,  and  remember  that 

"  Evils  are  wrought  by  want  of  thought, 
As  well  as  want  of  heart." 

Look  at  that  man  stooping  down  and  playing 
with  Dick,  our  hospital  pet.  A  gentleman  ?  you 
ask,  and  I  cannot  wonder  that  you  do.  Every  one 
who  sees  him  says,  "  But  he  isn't  one  of  the  pri 
vates?"  He  is;  but  I  imagine  there  is  no  one 


188  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

here  more  anxious  to  flourish  in  shoulder-straps. 
He  has  interested  me  much  since  I  first  met  him 
here;  he  was  very  sick  when  he  came  in,  but  I  did 
not  see  him  until  he  was  better,  and  taking  his 
place  as  one  of  the  orderlies — as  our  rule  is  in  the 
hospitals,  that  convalescents  turn  into  wardmasters 
and  orderlies,  before  they  are  fit  for  active  service 
on  the  field.  His  deference  to  the  ladies,  and 
certain  little  graces  of  manner,  showed  birth  and 
breeding;  and  I  said  to  M.  one  day,  "That  man 
was  born  a  gentleman."  I  found  that  she  quite 
agreed  with  me,  and  had  been  struck  by  the  same 
thing.  And  yet  there  was  an  air  of  dissatisfaction 
at  times,  and  a  bitterness  of  expression  which  I  was 
at  a  loss  to  account  for.  One  morning  I  had  brought 
some  books  to  the  hospital,  and  on  offering  them  to 
him,  amongst  others,  he  told  me  that  he  had  so 
injured  his  eyes  by  over-study  at  college,  that  he 
was  unable  to  use  them  at  all  at  present.  A  few 
words  more,  and  I  discovered  that  he  was  a  loyal 
Virginian,  who,  on  the  breaking  out  of  the  rebellion, 
had  left  family,  friends,  and  a  beautiful  home,  to 
enlist  in  our  army.  All  his  relations  were  bitterly 
opposed  to  the  step;  and  he  told  me,  with  much 
pain,  that  when  our  army  was  in  the  neighborhood 
of  his  home,  he  had  gone  there  to  see  his  family, 
but  that  they  had  positively  refused  to  see  him,  or 
even  to  allow  him  admittance.  I  could  scarcely 
wonder  at  his  depression  after  this;  but  it  seemed 


NOTES    OP     HOSPITAL    LIFE.  189 

to  me  that  the  consciousness  of  right,  in  the  step 
he  had  taken,  should  have  brought  him  more  con 
tent  and  peace  than  he  seemed  to  possess.  A  few 
afternoons  since,  he  came  in,  as  usual,  with  his 
waiter,  to  carry  the  supper  to  the  sick  men  (those 
unable  to  leave  their  beds)  in  his  ward.  I  noticed, 
as  I  arranged  the  plates  for  him,  that  he  looked 
much  disturbed,  and  that  his  hand  trembled. 

"  King,"  said  I,  "  you  are  hardly  strong  enough 
yet  to  carry  that  waiter;  you  should  ask  one  of  the 
other  orderlies  to  do  it  for  you." 

I  seemed  to  have  fired  a  mine.  Setting  the  waiter 
down  upon  the  table,  he  burst  forth  : 

"  It's  no  want  of  strength,  Miss  ,  but  what 

would  you  think  if  you  saw  Dr. and  Dr. 

(naming  two  of  our  surgeons)  playing  wardmaster 
and  orderly  in  a  hospital  in  the  South  ?  My  position 
was  just  what  theirs  is,  and  I  chafe  at  this  menial 
work.  My  blood  boils  at  playing  waiter  for  the 
men  here ;  I  can't  stand  it,  and  I  won't." 

I  looked  up  in  surprise.  "  What  should  I  think, 
King,  should  I  see  such  a  dreadful  sight  as  you 
suggest  ?  I  can  tell  you,  very  quickly,  what  I 
should  think.  If  those  gentlemen  had,  for  the 
sake  of  their  country,  nobly  given  up  every  private 
tie  as  you  have  done,  and,  by  the  fortune  of  war, 
had  been  thrown  into  a  hospital,  I  should  honor 
and  respect  them  for  fulfilling  every  duty  there 
imposed  upon  them;  and  I  doubt  not  that  they 


190  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

would  do  it  most  cheerfully,  as  part  of  the  service 
their  country  asks  at  their  hands.  I  should  like 
to  know,  also,  whether  it  is  less  menial  for  the 
ladies  to  turn  cooks  here,  than  for  the  men  to 
turn  waiters  ?  I  cannot  recall  that  I  ever  "  chafed" 
at  the  "menial  work/'  or  that  my  "blood  boiled" 
at  cooking  eggs,  or  boiling  farina,  unless  on  a  hot 
summer's  day,  when  the  fire  seemed  intolerable, 
but  never,  I  am  very  sure,  from  shame  at  the 
occupation.  We  go  even  further,  for  we  act  both 
cook  and  waiter.  A  day  never  passes  that  we  do 
not  carry  to  the  men  what  we  have  made  for 
them,  to  see  if  they  like  it  —  to  know  if  it  suits 
them  —  or  oftener  still,  to  feed  them,  because  they 
are  unable  to  feed  themselves.  Think  what  a  state 
of  fever-heat  our  blood  should  be  in  at  this  time, 
after  two  years  of  such  services  ! " 

"  But  the  case,"  said  he,  "  is  not  a  parallel  one. 
Your  service,  grateful  as  we  all  feel  for  it,  is  volun 
tary,  this  is  compulsory." 

"  I  thought  you  were  a  volunteer,  King  ?  When 
you  enlisted,  did  you  specify  just  the  kind  of  work 
you  would  do '!  When  your  country  needed  you, 
did  you  limit  the  aid  you  offered  ?  What  matter  is  it 
to  you  whether  she  asks  you  to  fight  for  her,  or  to 
serve  her  by  ministering  to  her  sick  and  wounded 
members,  suffering  in  a  common  cause  from  their 
efforts  on  her  behalf." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it  in  that  light  before." 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL     LIFE.  191 

"Think  of  it  so  now,  my  man;  you  will  be  far 
happier.  That  southern  blood  is  a  little  too  hot, 
and  you  have  failed  to  perceive  that  all  work  is 
dignified  and  ennobled  by  the  spirit  which  you 
bring  to  it.  Because  you  are  a  classical  student, 
and  feel  that  you  have  talents  and  acquirements 
which  fit  you  for  something  higher,  you  chafe  at 
this  service ;  but,  believe  me,  the  faithful  perform 
ance  of  your  duties  here,  will  by  no  means  unfit 
you  for  a  command  in  the  field  so  soon  as  your 
services  there  shall  win  for  you  the  promotion  you 
so  much  desire.  So  take  up  your  waiter,  and  don't 
let  your  blood  boil  too  much  as  you  go  up  stairs, 
or  you  may  upset  my  saucers." 

He  took  my  lecture  in  very  good  part,  and  since 
:hen  we  have  been  excellent  friends.  I  think,  since 
he  realized  that  I  preferred  talking  to  him  to 
lecturing  him,  and  liked  to  enter  upon  higher 
themes  with  him,  which  he  is  so  well  fitted  to 
discuss,  that  he  has  become  more  contented,  and 
has  resolved  to  accept  his  position.  Let  us  speak 
to  him;  notice  how  his  eye  brightens  and  his 
expression  changes,  as  he  speaks. 

"  Well.  King,  how  are  your  men  to-day?" 

"  I've  just  been  waiting  for  you,  Miss ;  Joe 

sent  me  to  ask  you  for  two  of  those  hand-splints 
you  received  yesterday — for  the  left  hand,  please — 
they  are  for  Jarvis  and  Wright  —  those  very  bad 
arms,  you  know." 


192  NOTES    OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

"  Oh  !  yes.  The  splints  that  came  with  all  those 
things,  yesterday,  from  the  Sanitary  Commission. 
God  bless  that  Sanitary  Commission — what  should 
we  do  without  it  ?  Our  soldiers  here  have  quite  as 
much  reason  to  be  grateful  as  those  in  the  field. 
Look  at  those  shelves — all  that  wine,  those  jellies, 
preserves,  syrups,  and  pickles,  came  from  them,  as 
well  as  these  cushions,  pads,  and  splints.  They 
send  us,  constantly,  fresh  eggs,  butter,  lard,  and 
such  perishable  articles  as  must  be  consumed  at 
once.  Here,  King,  take  these  splints,  and  then 
come  back,  will  you,  for  some  pickles  I  want  to 
send  to  your  men." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  certainly,  if  I  can  get  down  again; 
but  Joe  is  going  away  on  a  furlough,  to-day,  and  I 
am  to  be  wardmaster  till  his  return." 

"Shall  your  'blood  boil'  more,  or  less,  King,  in 
your  new  position  ?" 

Do  you  hear  that  merry  laugh,  as  he  goes  up  the 
stairs  ?  No  more  fear  for  him  •  he  is  only  making 
himself  too  useful,  and  we  shall  be  sorry  to  see 
him  returned  to  his  regiment.  Yery  tired,  are 
you,  of  the  study  of  character?  I  have  about  a 
dozen  more  men  here  that  I  should  like  to  show 
you,  but  I  will  be  merciful,  and  send  you  home, 
now,  quite  aware  that  you  feel  amply  satisfied 
with  your  hospital  diet  to-day. 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  193 


OUR   GETTYSBURG  MEN. 

JULY,  1863. 

IT  is  with  peculiar  feelings  of  gratitude,  joy, 
relief,  and  safety,  that  we  have  entered  upon  our 
duties  this  week.  The  one  absorbing  idea  of  the 
last  ton  days — the  impatience  for  the  news  of  each 
hour  as  it  passed — the  eagerness  to  seek  the  opin 
ions  of  friends,  even  though  such  opinions  brought 
but  further  disturbance  of  mind  —  the  difficulty 
of  deciding  upon  the  proper  course  of  action. — 
the  heavy,  wearing  anxiety  —  the  slow  realization 
that  war,  which  we  have,  as  yet,  only  looked  upon 
at  a  distance,  might,  at  a  moment,  be  brought  to 
our  own  doors. —  our  homes  laid  waste,  and  our 
selves  fugitives —  all  these  things  live  too  freshly 
in  the  minds  of  us  all,  to  need  word  of  mine  to 
recall  them.  Who  can  ever  forget  the  pressure 
which  weighed  down  our  spirits  when  we  rose  on 
that  most  memorable  "Fourth"  just  passed? — the 
earnestness  with  which  our  cry  to  heaven  went  up 
for  success  to  our  arms  —  the  pause  of  those  long 
morning  hours,  when  the  whole  city  seemed  hold 
ing  its  breath  in  terrible  suspense  —  and  then  the 
grand,  the  glorious  reaction,  when  the  lightning 
17 


194  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

flashed  peace  and  joy  and  safety  to  all  hearts? 
Did  ever  language  bring  more  joy  than  those 
two  blessed  words,  "  Meade  victorious?"  What 
could  we  do  but  fall  upon  our  knees,  and  offer 
up  our  hearts  in  thankfulness  for  such  an  answer 
to  our  prayers  ?  God  did  that  day  ;'  take  the 
cause  into  his  own  hands,  and  judge  between  us 
and  our  enemies,"  and  we  were  saved.  Was  it  not 
that,  as  a  people,  we  had  turned  to  him  —  as  a 
people  we  had  acknowledged  the  weakness  of  a 
human  arm  —  as  a  people  we  had  poured  forth  our 
hearts  in  prayer^  and  he  had  heard  us  ? 

Those  were  indeed  never-to-be-forgotten  days. 
Amid  all  other  trials,  came  the  sad  thought  of  our 
poor,  wounded  men  at  home.  What  would  be  their 
fate  ?  To  leave  them  for  the  sake  of  personal 
safety  seemed  so  base;  martyrdom  for  and  with 
them  so  attractive, — and  yet  it  was  not  quite  clear 
to  my  mind — much  as  I  longed  to  aid  them — what 
special  benefit  could  accrue  to  them  by  self  immo 
lation  on  the  rebel  altar.  It  was  a  difficult  question ; 
and  yet  one  always  found  payment  for  those  anx 
ious  hours,  in  listening  to  the  earnest  promises  of 
protection  and  defence — so  evidently  sincere — from 
those  warm  hearts;  the  wish  and  purpose  so  far 
outstripping  the  ability. 

"  Don't  you  fear,  ladies,  we'll  take  care  of  you." 
l-  We'll  fight  for  you  while  there's  a  man  of  us 
loft." 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  195 

"Yes,  that  we  will!  or  a  drop  of  blood  left  in 
our  bodies." 

"  We'll  make  earthworks  of  our  bodies  before  the 
rebs  shall  touch  you,  ladies,  depend  upon  that." 

"  Only  protect  yourselves,"  said  I,  to  a  particu 
larly  valiant  cripple,  who  had  just  expressed  similar 
views  for  us,  and  slightly  derogatory  ones  to  the 
rebel  general,  then  supposed  to  be  approaching  our 
city,  "  only  protect  yourselves,  and  I  shall  be  quite 
satisfied." 

"Protect  ourselves!"  said  a  poor  fellow  unable 
to  move  in  his  bed ;  "  they'll  make  mince-meat  of 
us,  the  first  thing." 

I  found  that  this  "mince-meat"  idea  took  more 
firm  possession  of  my  mind  than  almost  any  other 
connected  with  the  raid;  and  one  of  the  greatest 
reliefs  which  I  experienced  on  that  joyful  day,  was 
the  consciousness  that  it  could  not  now  be  put  into 
execution. 

The  afternoon  of  the  "  Fourth,"  as  I  entered  the 
hospital,  the  beaming  faces  and  glad  congratula 
tions  of  the  poor  fellows,  proved  how  much  they 
had  dreaded  the  rebel  invasion,  in  spite  of  the  bold 
front  which  they  had  all  presented,  with  the  single 
exception  of  my  "mince -meat"  friend.  I  still 
recall,  with  pleasure,  the  intense  delight  of  one 
man  to  whom  I  spoke  of  our  victory.  By  some 
strange  chance,  which  I  never  could  explain,  he 
had  not  heard  it. 


196  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

"  Is  that  so  ?  Is  it  really  so  ?  That's  bully. 
Let's  do  something!"  and,  nothing  else  being  at 
hand,  he  seized  his  pillow  and  sent  it  high  into 
the  air. 

But  now  come  the  sad  results,  which  must  follow 
alike  in  the  wake  of  victory  or  defeat.  The  wounded, 
where  are  they  ?  A  battle  on  our  own  soil,  and  at 
so  short  a  distance  from  us,  comparatively  speaking, 
must  bring  them  to  us  more  directly  from  the  field 
than  any  we  have  yet  received;  and  we  have  been 
hoping  all  this  week,  as  they  were  pouring  into  the 
city,  that  we  should  have  our  share. 

"  Hoping?"  Yes,  hoping;  start  not  at  the  term, 
I  have  used  it  deliberately.  Once  launched  upon 
the  sea  of  hospital  life,  your  views  undergo  a 
change,  and  your  one  interest  becomes  to  receive, 
nurse,  and  watch  the  worst  cases;  it  is  the  hospital 
spirit,  and  you  cannot  breathe  its  air  without  im 
bibing  the  feeling.  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday, 
Thursday,  Friday  have  passed,  with  only  the  ad 
mittance  of  a  few  each  day,  none  badly  wounded, 
and  none  requiring  special  care  or  tending;  and  to 
those  whose  burning  zeal  makes  them  eager  to  pay 
off  some  part  of  their  debt  of  gratitude  to  men, 
who,  humanly  speaking,  have  turned  the  enemy 
from  their  doors,  this  is  somewhat  of  a  disappoint 
ment.  We  have  had,  to  be  sure,  the  pleasure  of 
several  visits  from  old  friends  here,  who  had  been 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  197 

slightly    wounded    in    the    fight,    and   have   been 
returned   to    other    hospitals. 

It  is  Saturday  afternoon.  I  have  just  seated 
myself  in  our  room  for  a  moment's  quiet,  after  a 
most  busy,  bustling  day, — many  sick,  and  much  to 
do,  although  not  exactly  what  we  had  wished  for. 
M.  rushes  in,  on  her  return  fi'om  her  dinner. 

"  Sitting  quietly,  I  declare,  as  if  nothing  was 
going  on  I  Do  you  know  what's  at  the  door?" 

-Nothing  different  from  usual,  I  presume;  you 
needn't  try  to  excite  me;  I've  just  taken  a  seat 
for  a  five  minutes'  rest." 

••  Go  and  look  for  yourself,  then,  if  you  are  so 
incredulous.  Ambulances  and  stretchers  enough, 
I  should  think,  to  suit  even*  your  taste." 

As  I  hurry,  half  doubting,  to  the  door,  I  meet 
one  of  our  surgeons,  paper  and  pencil  in  hand, 
talking  to  one  of  the  wardmasters. 

;-  How  many  beds  in  your  ward  ?  All  ready,  did 
you  say?  That's  right." 

;:  Plenty  of  work  for  the  ladies,  Miss ;  1  see 

some  pretty  bad  cases  coming  in." 

'•Just  what  we  wanted,  doctor;  we  have  been 
hoping  they  would  come  in  our  week,  and  it's 
almost  over." 

"  Time  enough,  yet,  to  make  them  plenty  of 
milk  punch,  and  cold  drinks.  Some  of  them,  I 
notice,  are  much  exhausted,  and  will  need  stim 
ulating." 


198  NOTES     OF     ITO  SPIT  A  L     LIFE. 

Here  was  a  practical  suggestion — something  to 
be  acted  upon  at  once,  and  far  more  useful  than 
running  to  look  at  them,  as  they  are  carried  in; 
so  I  return  quickly,  tell  M.  the  doctor's  wish,  and 
all  our  pitchers  are  hastily  filled  with  milk  punch, 
iced  lemonade,  syrup  and  water,  etc.,  etc.  This,  of 
course,  occupies  some  little  time ;  and  as  we  reach 
the  dining-room, — where  all  are  placed  who  can 
W7alk,  hobble,  or  crawl,  till  they  are  distributed 
into  the  different  wards,  while  those  on  stretchers 
are  being  carried  at  once  to  their  beds, —  I  almost 
start  at  the  rough-looking  set  we  suddenly  find 
ourselves  in  the  midst  of.  Are  they  miners  or 
coal-heavers?  Black  enough  and  dirty  enough 
for  either;  and  I  catch  myself  repeating  over  and 
over,  "  In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt,"  etc.,  till  I 
am  afraid  I  shall  say  it  aloud.  But  what  care  we 
for  dust  and  dirt  ?  Set  down  your  pitcher,  shake 
hands,  and  thank  them.  Is  it  not  Gettysburg  dust 
and  dirt?  Is  it  not  the  dust  and  dirt  of  victory? 
Have  not  those  torn  and  bullet -riddled  clothes 
come  straight  from  the  field  of  their  fame  ?  And 
have  they  not  saved  us  from  distress,  wretchedness, 
and  ruin?  I  look  at  them  with  reverence;  they 
seem  to  bring  the  battle  so  very  near  that  the  tears 
will  rise,  as  those  torn  and  dirty  bandages  show7  at 
what  cost  the  victory  was  won.  But  do  not  imagine 
me  standing  all  this  time  in  a  fine  frenzy,  meditating 
on  the  results  of  a  battle.  These  thoughts  slip  in, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  199 

between  the  filling  and  emptying  of  our  pitchers, 
and  the  glad,  grateful  expressions  for  the  "treat/' 
as  they  call  it.  Poor  fellows  !  they  shall  have  our 
best,  that  is  very  certain. 

As  I  am  pouring  out  the  last  glass  from  my 
pitcher,  my  eye  is  caught  Ly  a  face,  on  a  stretcher, 
as  it  is  borne  past  me.  It  is  that  of  a  boy,  scarcely 
more  than  sixteen,  I  should  think.  His  thick,  black 
curls,  eyes  bright  and  sparkling,  (with  fever,  it 
must  be,)  and  brilliant  color,  contrast  with  his 
remarkably  clean  shirt  and  sheet.  What  can  it 
mean,  amidst  this  mass  of  dirt?  As  my  work  is 
done,  I  follow  him  into  the  ward. 

"  You  can't  have  been  in  the  Gettysburg  fight, 
my  boy,  were  you?" 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am,  rightly,  whether  you'd 
call  it  in  it  or  not;  I  was  in  an  ambulance,  in  the 
rear.  I've  been  in  one,  following  the  army,  since 
the  twenty-first  of  June;  and  it  seems  pretty  good 
to  be  on  a  thing  that  don't  move/' 

"  But  why  weren't  you  left  in  a  hospital?" 

"  'Cause  I  begged  so  to  go  on  with  the  rest.  The 
ambulance  was  going,  and  I  begged  them  to  let  me 
go  in  it,  and  I  promised  to  be  well  for  the  fight ;  so 
they  took  me ;  but  I  got  so  much  worse,  I  didn't 
know  when  the  fight  was ;  it's  the  typhoid  I've 
got,  and  my  head's  dreadful  bad." 

"Your  hair  is  so  heavy,"   said   I;   "we'll  take 


200  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

some  of  that  off  and  bathe  your  head,  and  that 
will  relieve  it." 

"Oh!  no,  ma'am;  no,  thank  you;  I  don't  want 
it  off." 

"  Why  not  ?  It  would  be  much  cooler,  and  do 
you  good." 

"  Why,  I'll  soon  be  well,  and  it  looks  so  pretty 
when  it's  fixed !" 

The  time  has  come,  since  then,  when  I  have 
quite  agreed  with  David ;  those  curls  do  look 
very  "pretty,  when  they're  fixed;"  and  I  am 
glad  he  pleaded  for  them  so  innocently.  Let  no 
one  ever  say  that  vanity  is  confined  to  the  breast 
of  woman ;  the  result  of  close  observation  has 
convinced  me  that  it  lives  and  thrives  with  tenfold 
greater  power  in  man;  and  this  little  proof  of  it, 
just  uttered  with  so  much  simplicity,  only  confirms 
a  preconceived  opinion.  I  do  not,  however,  con 
fide  these  views  to  my  new  friend,  but  advising 
him  to  keep  perfectly  still,  I  say  goodbye,  for  the 
present,  and  pass  on.  As  I  hurry  down  the  ward, 
I  am  struck  by  the  expression  of  utter  contentment 
and  quiet,  on  a  strange  face — one  of  the  new  men, 
evidently;  as  I  come  up  to  the  bed  where  he  is 
lying,  he  seems  to  me  to  be  actually  purring  with 
satisfaction. 

11  You  look  as  if  you  were  comfortable,  my  friend," 
said  I,  "  even  though  you  are  not  very  clean." 

'•'  Oh !    the  blessing  of   this   bed.     If  you   could 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  201 

know,  ma'am,  what  it  was  to  have  been  marching 
twenty  miles,  whether  you  could  or  not,  again  and 
again,  you'd  soon  feel  what  it  was  to  be  put  on  a 
bed  and  let  to  stay  there.  Like  the  South,  ma'am, 
I  just  want  'to  be  let  alone/  I  don't  the  least  care 
whether  I'm  clean  or  dirty — I'm  lying  quiet,  and  I 
am  happy." 

"  Well,  after  a  bath  and  clean  clothes,  which 
they  are  giving  the  men  as  rapidly  as  possible, 
you  shall  lie  as  still  as  you  please;  but  I  am  afraid 
that  must  come  first/' 

"Don't  think,  ma'am,"  said  he,  laughing,  "that 
I  object  to  either  of  those  things;  they've  not  been 
too  plenty  where  we  were,  but  I  just  feel  now  as  if 
I  never  wanted  to  move  again/' 

"I  can  easily  understand  your  feeling;  enjoy 
your  quiet  as  long  as  they  will  let  you,  and  I  will 
bring  you  some  supper,  later." 

I  left  him  and  hurried  over  to  our  room,  where 
I  found  M.  busily  employed,  and  hastened  to  take 
my  share  in  the  work.  Just  at  this  moment,  as 
we  were  flying  about  in  every  direction,  now  here, 
now  there,  with  a  pad  for  one,  a  basin  and  sponge 
to  wet  wounds  for  another,  cologne  for  a  third,  and 
milk  punch  for  a  fourth,  I  felt  Dick  (our  hospital 
dog,  my  faithful  friend  and  ally,  a  four-footed 
Yidocq,  in  his  mode  of  scenting  out  grievances,) 
seize  my  dress  in  his  teeth,  pull  it  hard,  and  look 
eagerly  up  in  my  face.  "  What  is  it,  Dick  ?  I  am 


202  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

too  busy  to  attend  to  you  just  now."  Another 
hard  pull,  and  a  beseeching  look  in  his  eyes. 
"  Presently,  my  fine  fellow  !  presently.  Gettys 
burg  men  must  come  first." 

He  wags  his  tail  furiously,  and  still  pulls  my 
dress.  Does  he  mean  that  he  wants  me  for  one 
of  them?  -Perhaps  so.  "  Come,  Dick,  I'll  go  with 
you."  He  starts  off  delighted,  leads  me  to  the 
ward  where  those  worst  wounded  have  been  placed, 
travels  the  whole  length  of  it  to  the  upper  corner, 
where  lies  a  man  apparently  badly  wounded,  and 
crying  like  a  child.  I  had  seen  him  brought  in  on 
a  stretcher,  but  in  the  confusion  had  not  noticed 
where  he  had  been  taken.  Dick  halted,  as  we 
arrived  at  the  bed,  looked  at  me,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  There,  isn't  that  a  case  requiring  attention  ?" 
and  then,  as  though  quite  satisfied  to  resign  him 
into  my  hands,  trotted  quietly  off. 

I  stood  a  moment  to  take  an  observation  —  to 
make  a  sort  of  moral  diagnosis  before  beginning 
my  attack  —  to  find  out  whether  the  man  needed 
direct  or  indirect  sympathy.  Yery  often,  to  a 
severely  wounded  man — not  of  a  nervous  tempera 
ment,  but  suffering  intensely, — a  kind  word,  show 
ing  that  you  appreciate  and  enter  into  that  suffer 
ing,  falls  on  the  burning  wound  with  a  soothing, 
cooling  power,  as  beneficial,  for  the  instant,  as  a 
more  visible  application;  on  the  wound,  I  say,  for 
the  answer  is,  after  a  few  minutes'  conversation, 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  203 

not,  ';  Thank  you,  I  feel  better  able  to  bear  the 
pain,  now;"  but,  "  Thank  you,  my  arm.  doesn't 
burn  as  much  as  it  did  —  my  limb  isn't  so  painful 
—  my  head  feels  cooler,  now."  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  who  that  has  suffered  from  unstrung  nerves 
does  not  know  that  what  is  most  needed  in  such  a 
case,  is  to  divert  the  mind  from  itself — to  present 
suddenly  some  other  image  powerful  enough  to 
efface  from  it  the  impressions  of  its  own  wretched 
self — to  enable  it  to  rouse  itself  and  rise  above  the 
\veakness  it  is  ashamed  of,  but  has  no  power  to 
conquer?  Any  allusion  to  the  suffering  itself,  in 
such  a  case,  only  adds  fuel  to  the  flame. 

I  had  time  to  draw  my  own  conclusions,  and  soon 
decided  that  Dick's  protege  belonged  to  this  latter 
class.  He  did  not  notice  my  approach;  I  therefore 
stood  watching  him  for  a  little  while.  His  arm 
and  hand,  from  which  the  bandage  had  partially 
slipped,  were  terribly  swollen  ;  the  wound  was  in 
the  wrist,  (or  rather,  as  I  afterwards  found,  the 
ball  had  entered  the  palm  of  his  hand  and  had 
come  out  at  his  wrist,)  and  appeared  to  be,  as  it 
subsequently  proved,  a  very  severe  one. 

31y  boast  that  I  could  make  a  pretty  good  con 
jecture  what  State  a  man  came  from  by  looking  at 
him,  did  not  avail  me  here.  I  was  utterly  at  fault. 
His  fair,  Saxon  face,  so  far  as  I  could  judge  of  it 
as  he  lay  sobbing  on  his  pillow,  had  something 
feminine — almost  childlike — in  the  innocence  and 


204  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

gentleness  of  its  expression ;  and  my  first  thought 
was  one  which  has  constantly  recurred  on  closer 
acquaintance,  "How  utterly  unfit  for  a  soldier!" 
He  wanted  the  quick,  nervous  energy  of  the  New 
Englander,  who,  even  when  badly  wounded,  rarely 
fails  to  betray  his  origin ;  he  had  none  of  the  rough 
off-hand  dash  of  our  Western  brothers,  and  could 
never  have  had  it,  even  in  health;  nor  yet  the 
stolidity  of  our  Pennsylvania  Germans.  No  !  it 
was  clear  that  I  must  wait  till  he  chose  to  enlighten 
me  as  to  his  home.  After  a  few  minutes'  study,  1 
was  convinced  that  his  tears  were  not  from  the 
pain  of  his  wound ;  there  was  no  contraction  of 
the  brow,  no  tension  of  the  muscles,  no  quivering 
of  the  frame;  he  seemed  simply  very  weary,  very 
languid,  like  a  tired  child,  and  I  resolved  to  act 
accordingly. 

"  I  have  been  so  busy  with  our  defenders,  this 
afternoon,"  said  I,  "  that  I  have  had  no  time  to 
come  and  thank  you." 

lie  started,  raised  his  tear-stained  face,  and  said, 
with  a  wTondering  air,  "  To  thank  me  ?  For  what  ?" 

"  For  what  ?"  said  I ;  '•  haven't  you  been  keeping 
the  rebels  away  from  us  ?•  Don't  you  know  that  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  you  and  many  like  you,  we  might 
at  this  moment  have  been  flying  from  our  homes, 
and  General  Lee  and  his  men  occupying  our  city? 
You  don't  seem  to  know  how  grateful  we  are  to 
you — we  feel  as  though  we  could  never  do  enough 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  205 

for  our  brave  Gettysburg  men  to  return  what  they 
have  done  for  us." 

This  seemed  quite  a  novel  idea,  and  the  tears 
were  stopped  to  muse  upon  it. 

"  We  tried  to  do  our  duty,  ma'am,  I  know  that." 

"  I  know  it  too,  and  I  think  I  could  make  a 
pretty  good  guess  what  corps  you  belong  to.  Sup 
pose  I  try.  Wasn't  it  the  Second  Corps  ?  You 
look  to  me  like  one  of  General  Hancock's  men ; 
you  know  they  were  praised  in  the  papers  for 
their  bravery.  Am  1  right?" 

The  poor  tired  face  brightened  instantly.  The 
random  shot  had  hit  the  mark. 

"  Yes,  Second  Corps.  Did  you  know  by  my 
cap?" 

"  Your  cap  ?  You  don't  wear  your  cap  in  bed, 
do  you  ?  I  haven't  seen  your  cap ;  I  guessed  by 
that  wound — it  must  have  been  made  where  there 
was  pretty  hard  fighting,  and  I  knew  the  Second 
Corps  had  done  their  share  of  that." 

But  this  was  dangerous  ground,  as  I  felt  the 
moment  the  allusion  to  his  wound  was  made ;  the 
sympathy  was  too  direct,  and  his  eyes  filled  at 
once.  Seeing  my  mistake,  I  plunged  off  rapidly 
on  another  tack. 

"  Did  you  notice  my  assistant  orderly  who  came 
in  with  me  just  now  ?  He  had  been  over  to  see 
you  before,  for  he  came  and  told  me  you  wanted 
me." 

18 


206  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

"I  wanted  you  !  No,  ma'am;  that's  a  mistake; 
no  one's  been  near  me  since  they  bathed  me,  and 
gave  me  clean  clothes — I  know  there  hasn't,  for  I 
watched  them  running  all  about;  but  none  came 
to  me,  and  I  want  so  much  to  have  my  arm  dressed." 
And  the  ready  tears  once  more  began  to  flow. 

'•  There  is  no  mistake.  I  told  you  that  my  assist 
ant  orderly  came  to  me  in  the  ladies'  room,  and 
told  me  that  you  needed  me.  Think  again — who 
has  been  here  since  you  were  brought  in?" 

"  ]STot  a  single  soul,  ma'am, — indeed,  not  a  thing, 
but  a  dog,  standing  looking  in  my  face,  and  wag 
ging  his  tail,  as  if  he  was  pitying  me." 

"  But  a  dog  !  Exactly ;  he's  my  assistant  orderly; 
he  came  over  to  me,  pulled  my  dress,  and  wouldn't 
rest  till  I  came  to  see  after  you.  I  am  surprised 
you  speak  so  slightingly  of  poor  Dick." 

Here  was  at  once  a  safe  and  fertile  theme.  I 
entered  at  large  upon  Dick's  merits;  his  fondness 
for  the  men — his  greater  fondness,  occasionally, 
for  their  dinners — his  having  made  way  with  three 
lunches  just  prepared  for  men  who  were  starting — 
(the  result,  probably,  of  having  heard  the  old  story 
that  the  surgeons  eat  what  is  intended  for  the  men,) 
our  finding  him  one  day  on  our  table  with  his  head 
in  a  pitcher  of  lemonade,  and  how  I  had  tried  to 
explain  to  him  that  such  was  not  the  best  way  of 
proving  his  regard  for  his  friends,  the  soldiers,  but 
I  feared  without  much  effect  —  in  short,  I  made  a 


NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE.  207 

long  story  out  of  nothing,  till  the  wardmaster 
arrived  with  his  supper,  saying  that  the  doctor's 
orders  were  that  the  new  cases  should  all  take 
something  to  eat  before  he  examined  their  wounds. 
"My  friend  had  quite  forgotten  his  owTn  troubles  in 
listening  to  Dick's  varied  talents,  and  allowed  me 
to  give  him  his  supper  very  quietly,  as  I  found  he 
was  really  too  much  exhausted  even  to  raise  his 
uninjured  arm  to  his  mouth.  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  him  smile  for  goodbye,  and  having  given 
him  rather  more  time  than  I  could  spare,  hurried 
away,  with  a  promise  of  seeing  him  the  next  day 
(Sunday),  for  they  were  too  ill  not  to  be  watched. 

But  oh  !  for  a  little  more  daylight !  It  is  getting 
so  dark,  and  yet  I  must  stop  and  make  acquaint 
ance  with  each  new  face  —  or  rather,  I  long  to  do 
so,  but  it  will  not  be  possible.  Look  at  those  clear 
blue  eyes,  over  there  — just  what  the  French  call 
'•  les  yeux  de  velours  !" — I  cannot  surely  pass  them 
without  a  word;  they  smile  a  welcome  as  I  approach. 
What  a  contrast  their  owner  presents  to  poor  Still- 
well,  my  tearful  friend,  whom  I  have  just  left.  A 
sweet,  bright  face,  clear  complexion,  curling  light 
hair,  and  something  very  winning  in  his  open, 
frank  expression,  which  attracts  you  to  him  at 
once.  Before  he  opens  his  lips  I  am  persuaded 
that  he  possesses  a  cheerful  spirit,  ready  to  look 
on  the  bright  side  of  everything. 


208  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL     LIFE. 

"  You  don't  look  as  though  you  were  suffering 
much ;  I  hope  you're  not  badly  wounded." 

What  a  beaming,  beautiful  smile,  as  he  extends 
his  hand  to  me  at  once  ! 

"Oh!  no;  not  badly,  only  hit  in  the  shoulder; 
it's  pretty  painful,  but  I  guess  I'll  be  all  right  in  a 
few  days." 

How  little  could  I  imagine,  from  his  words,  what 
I  found  out  a  few  days  later,  that  I  was  standing 
at  that  moment  by  one  of  the  very  worst  wounds 
that  had  come  in.  The  surgeon  of  the  ward  told 
me  that  he  considered  it  a  most  critical  case,  and 
that,  had  the  shot  gone  one  half  inch  further,  it 
must  have  been  certainly  fatal.  It  seemed  that 
Dick  and  I  between  us,  had  discovered  the  two 
most  severely  wounded  men  in  the  whole  hospital. 
For  many  weeks  after  that  they  were  dangerously 
ill,  requiring  close  and  careful  watching  every  hour, 
but  rewarding  us  in  the  end  with  the  hope  of  per 
fect  recovery. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  I,  in  answer  to  his 
too  sanguine  view  of  his  wound,  "for  you  don't 
look  as  if  you  had  seen  much  sickness,  and  maybe 
you  wouldn't  bear  it  very  well." 

"  I've  never  been  a  day  in  bed  in  my  life  before 
this,  and  I  hardly  know  what  to  make  of  it.  I'm 
an  Ohio  boy,  used  to  the  country  and  living  in  the 
open  air,  and  I  couldn't  stand  being  shut  up  here 
at  all ;  it's  as  bad  as  the  Libby  prison." 


NOTES     OF    HOSPITAL    LIFE.  209 

Fancy  my  horror.  Our  hospital  compared  to  the 
Libby  prison ! 

'•  Oh  !  you  mustn't  say  that;  we  try  to  do  every 
thing  here  to  make  the  confinement  as  easy  as 
possible  to  the  men,  and  to  help  them  to  forget 
that  it  is  a  hospital.  I'm  sure  you  can't  have 
been  in  the  'Libby'  ever,  have  you?" 

"Oh!  no,  indeed,  never;  but  it  seems  just  as 
bad  to  me  to  be  fastened  in  here." 

"  "Well,  some  day,  soon,  I  will  bring  you  in  some 
of  our  men  who  have  been  there ;  let  them  talk  to 
you  and  give  you  their  experience,  and  then,  when 
you  know  us  better,  I  will  ask  you  whether  you 
still  think  the  same.  But  now  I  must  really  say 
good-night.  I  will  come  to  the  '  prison/  to-morrow, 
to  see  how  you  all  are." 

"Thank  you;  you'll  be  very  welcome;  and 
maybe,"  added  he,  laughing,  "  it  won't  seem  so 
like  it  when  I  get  at  home  here;"  and  once  more 
extending  his  hand,  he  said  "  good-night." 

So  ended  the  memorable  week  of  July,  1863, 
wrhich  followed  the  glorious  Gettysburg  fight. 

The  tide  of  war  has  rolled  back  from  our  homes ; 
the  highly  strung  nerves  are  calmed;  the  dead 
sleep  in  the  quiet  graves  which  a  people's  love  has 
provided  for  them  on  the  field  of  their  fame ;  the 
wounded,  so  lately  massed  in  our  midst,  are  scat 
tered;  some  —  too  few,  alas!  —  returned,  cured,  to 
their  regiments;  others  (the  saddest  part  of  the 
18* 


210  NOTES     OF     HOSPITAL    LIFE. 

war)  discharged  from  service,  disabled  and  crippled 
for  life;  while  for  the  remainder,  listen  to  the 
words  of  that  pale  boy  —  as  I  raise  his  head  to 
give  him  the  needed  stimulant,  the  notes  of  music 
fall  on  my  ear. 

"  What  is  that,  Henry  ?" 

"  What  is  that,  do  you  ask,  Miss  -  -?  That  is 
only  some  of  our  poor  Gettysburg  boys  going  home;" 
and  I  recognize  the  dead  march,  and  I  see  the 
reversed  arms,  as  the  mournful  train  winds  by. 

Time  has  gone  on;  new  faces,  new  forms,  have 
filled  the  places  of  the  old  ones,  and  still  our  labors, 
our  hopes,  our  Prayers,  continue  for  our  dear  and 
bleeding  country;  still  continues,  also,  our  abiding 
faith  and  trust  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of  the  right; 
and,  leaving  the  event  in  Higher  Hands,  fearlessly 
we  abide  the  issue. 


THE     END. 


RETURN    CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 
TO—*    202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling        642-3405 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

001171997 

NOV_25J997 

FORM  NO.  DD6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 

BERKELEY,  CA  94720 

®$ 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


